


The Disgraced Governess

by wildestranger



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M, regency au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildestranger/pseuds/wildestranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon is a governess with a disgraced past, who comes to teach the young cousins of Sir Spencer Smith. Sir Spencer is amused by this bouncy young man, and finds himself paying far to much attention to Mr Boyd's secretive manner as well as to the way he fills his regrettably old and worn clothes . Furthermore, Sir Spencer's oldest friend, the dissolute Lord Ross, is trying to woo, unsuccessfully, his estate manager Mr Walker. despite the tumultuous passion between them, Mr Walker refuses to give in to Lord Ross's advances as long as Lord Ross refuses to admit that it is more than a tumble in the hey that he wants from Mr Walker. Fortunately, Walker is a patient man and willing to wait while Ross goes through his tantrums. To this entangled situation arrives Mr Wentz, a cousin of Sir Spencer and an old flame of Lord Ross. Mr Wentz is known for his debauched lifestyle and delights in causing mayhem - and he seems far too interested in Sir Spencer's new tutor. But will the lovers find a way? Will Brendon lose his flower and find healing through the magic of buttsex? Will Ryan learn to admit his feelings and finally convince Jon Walker to bed him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> The names of non-famous family members have been intentionally changed - as they are not public figures, they are also not fodder for my porn. All other characters, excepting the cook, the butler, and the barmaid, are references to real people. No insult is intended. Slight mockery on the other hand...
> 
> Thanks to emeraldgreen and harriet_vane for reading through this at various stages

Sir Spencer was not what Brendon had expected, or hoped for. A tall young man, his light-brown hair slightly too long for fashion, not more than a few years older than Brendon himself. Probably the same age as Mr Flowers. Brendon shifted in his chair and lowered his gaze, affecting modesty whilst making sure that his hands had not started picking at his jacket or tapping a rhythm against his leg. This man was nothing like Mr Flowers, he decided. Sir Spencer Smith was the head of his household and the responsible guardian of his three cousins. He had broad shoulders that filled his elegant coat neatly, and no doubt strong thighs under his desk, and Brendon really shouldn't be thinking about that. Regardless of how capable Sir Spencer's fingers looked as they traced Brendon's references with a quill.

Brendon swallowed hastily, looked up, and discovered that his new employer had given up examining Lady Palmer's letter of recommendation in favour of inspecting Brendon. Sir Spencer's cool blue eyes gave the impression of being both thoughtful and thorough as they seemed to take in Brendon's worn boots (still dusty from his journey), his threadbare breeches, and the painstakingly cleaned brown coat that Brendon had salvaged from a pile of Mr Stump's old clothes and wore for travelling, public outings and meeting employers. It was perhaps a little too large for him, for Patrick had been a rotund youth, but it gave an air of modesty and genteel poverty, which Brendon preferred to cultivate. His employers, he had discovered, liked to see distinguishable inferiority in the people they hired to educate their children, and it was in his own interests to look unremarkable. Yet despite his awareness of a well-thought out plan for his appearance, Brendon was somewhat unnerved by so exact a scrutiny.

Then Sir Spencer smiled and Brendon felt his body begin to relax. Something about Sir Spencer's curving mouth suggested that he was off the hook, not that Brendon should have been on the hook to begin with, but. Sir Spencer looked like he could be stern when he needed to. Brendon resisted the shiver that ran down his spine at that thought.

"Do you have any questions, Mr Boyd?"

Brendon sat up straight and glanced down on his notes. It was important, he found, to always carry a stack of notes, even if he had an excellent memory and never needed reminders. Apparently it made him look suitably organised.

"How old is my pupil?"

"Casimir is seventeen."

Brendon widened his eyes in polite enquiry. "What an unusual name."

Sir Spencer's mouth twitched in a mild moue of distaste.

"His parents were keen travellers and felt that their children should…reflect that. Casimir was born in Poland, Greta in Bavaria, and Alexander in Greece."

Brendon nodded, anticipating more, but as Sir Spencer closed his mouth and stared down at Brendon with slightly raised eyebrows, apparently that was all that he needed to know. Brendon swallowed hastily, and fumbled with his notes.

"And Casimir is preparing for Cambridge?"

A look of pained endurance took over Sir Spencer's face.

"Yes. He particularly needs help with his Latin and Greek, and I'm afraid that after he was sent down from Harrow for, ahem, excessively high spirits, he has barely opened a book. Casimir is not a keen student, but he will do the work, and you are to let me know immediately if he does not. We have an agreement with which I expect him to honour - if he does well in his studies, he is allowed to buy a new phaeton at the end of the summer. As Casimir is very enthusiastic about his horses, I imagine he will do as he's told."

Brendon was familiar with young gentlemen who were enthusiastic about driving their horses, but did not let this show on his face. Instead, he pulled up a piece of paper from the bottom of his stack of notes, and studied it intently. This one seemed to be a prose translation of Lord Way's _The Unicorn Heart_ into Latin. He followed the first lines of anima unicornus with his eyes, and then looked up, his inquisitive face in place.

"And what about the other children?"

A sudden smile transformed Sir Spencer's countenance, accentuating the light softness in his cheeks, and Brendon felt a strange jolt in his belly. _This is a stern and sober man,_ he told himself, sternly. _No combination of youthful charm and responsible shoulders will lead to closer intimacy between you and your employer. _He made himself sit up straighter and ignored the slightly amused glance Sir Spencer gave him. _Ignore the cheeks._

"Greta is eighteen and preparing for her debut next year. You might be called upon to accompany her on the piano - I understand this is one of your particular skills? - but nothing more than that. Alexander, on the other hand, will need tutoring in history and French as well as Latin and Greek. He attended one semester at Harrow before having to return home because of ill health, but unlike his brother, Alexander has been immersing himself in his books for the past two months and driving us all mad by refusing speak anything other than Latin. He will be your primary charge."

Brendon nodded again, and was about to ask about Alexander's health when the door opened and another young man stepped in. This gentleman was a little taller than Sir Spencer and much thinner - a thinness based on his natural shape rather starvation, Brendon noted - and dressed in the most resplendent purple waist-coat Brendon had ever seen. It was stiff with detailed embroidery, and offset by light blue pantaloons of the tightest possible mould (Perhaps too tight, Brendon thought, considering the shapes revealed by the thin material). An almost femininely pretty face was surrounded by brown curls, cut severely à la Brutus.

Sir Spencer nodded at the newcomer, who responded with a light smirk and a jerk of his head towards Brendon.

"Is this the new governess?"

Brendon blinked but said nothing, and lowered his eyes. Gentlemen would have their little fun.

"I appreciate that it is early in the morning for you," Sir Spencer said, nodding towards the noon sun shining through the windows, "but I'd still expect you to be able to tell the difference between breeches and skirts. Or has it been one of those nights? I have told you to stay away from the absinthe."

The young man scoffed and twitched in a way that might be interpreted as intended for a shrug. The voluminous folds of his purple scarf billowed around his slender frame, and Brendon had to look hastily down before any unfortunate noises could escape his throat.

"Don't be ridiculous, Spencer. I was merely inquiring if you were absolutely certain that what you have in front of you is, in fact, a young gentleman, and not some runaway girl who believes herself to be a heroine? They tend to be the only ones who wear breeches these days, you know. And you wouldn't want a repeat of last time."

A complicated tug-of-war seemed to play itself out on Sir Spencer's face, as his mouth curved between amusement and annoyance. Brendon reminded himself that he was not supposed to look at Sir Spencer's mouth.

"Pray, pay no attention to Lord Ross. He indulged in too much sherry last night and it makes him cranky."

Lord Ross's bored countenance formed a somewhat petulant scowl. Brendon refrained from snickering, although he was reminded of a similar expression on the face of his six-year-old cousin when denied a bonbon.

"It shouldn't surprise me that you can't tell the difference between your finest burgundy and a foul concoction suitable only for moth-smelling old ladies."

Sir Spencer's voice was dry.

"Indeed, my expertise in this area is woefully inadequate when compared to yours. Now, did you have other insightful comments to make on the topic of personal tutors, or shall I see you at dinner? No doubt you have a poem to write. Or something else to occupy you."

The dismissal was delivered with a calm tone and a raised eyebrow, which suggested that although Sir Spencer had not commented directly on his friend's rudeness, he was neither unaware nor tolerant of it. Lord Ross, however, seemed unaffected, curling his mouth into a light sneer and exiting the room with a huff and as much dignity as a man wearing an extravagantly embroidered cravat could muster.

"Now, Mr Boyd, let me assure you that I have no doubts as to your manliness." Sir Spencer's smirk was only somewhat less evil than his friend's, and caused Brendon considerably more embarrassment and blushing. "Furthermore, as your references seem to be impeccable, I would be delighted to offer you the position of tutor to my cousins."

Brendon plastered a hasty smile on his face, and tried to make sure his voice was steady.

"Thank you, Sir Spencer, I would be happy to accept."

"You can start immediately, I trust?"

Brendon nodded, ignoring the lump growing in his throat. There would be time for relief later. When he was safe in his room with his things and the knowledge that he was not going to be turned away.

"Good! Someone will show you to your room, then, and I shall expect to see you at dinner. We dine at country hours, of course."

Rising from his chair, Brendon told himself to ignore the warmth in the smile and focus on the dismissal.

"Of course. Thank you, Sir Spencer."

Sir Spencer nodded, and rose from his chair as well. Brendon had a moment of panic when he wondered whether he was expected to bow, or shake hands, or what, but his host moved quickly to the door, opened it, and yelled "Margaret!" A dark-haired maid with ruddy cheeks arrived a minute later.

"Sir Spencer?"

"This is Mr Boyd, he shall be teaching my cousins. Please show him the old tutor's room."

The maid bobbed a curtsy.

"Yes, sir."

As he turned to follow the maid, Brendon could not help giving one last glance at Sir Spencer. He was leaning against the study door, his arms crossed before him, watching Brendon. Brendon gulped and looked away.

 

* * *

 

Ryan was not in a pleasant mood when he stepped out of Spencer's office. There was a headache growing behind his ears and his stomach was unhappy about its previous meal - not that it had any reason to be unhappy, Ryan reminded his belly, last night's desert was a perfectly acceptable breakfast food, especially this early in the afternoon. What he needed was more tea. And perhaps some scones. Ryan was fond of scones and there was no reason not to indulge himself. He deserved it after Spencer's unjust mockery.

These thoughts had taken him past the library and towards the private sitting rooms, and Ryan was just about to raise his head and wonder what he was doing there when a sudden collision brought him flush against another body. Grasping for balance, Ryan felt strong hands grab his shoulders, keeping him steady and a moment of warm breath on his cheek. A scent of woodcuts and coffee teased his nose, and then Ryan recoiled, pulling away with such haste that he struck his shoulder against the wall.

The other man stepped back, his hands falling down slowly. Ryan could see the pulse beat fast on his throat, the sheen of sweat drawing his gaze. The shirt was open at neck and seemed to taunt him with its indecency.

Ryan felt his mouth curve into a sneer, more vicious than the one he had graced on Spencer's new governess. Despite his bursting heart, Ryan's voice was smooth and low.

"Master Walker. Kindly watch where you're going."

Calm brown eyes studied him as Walker took his time, as usual, to answer.

"I apologise, my lord. I should have watched where you were going."

There was a smile in there somewhere, in the corner of Walker's eyes, hiding under his beard. It always came when he spoke to Walker and Ryan was growing sick of seeing it.

"Don't be insolent!"

Walker lowered his eyes, but there was a tiny curl on his mouth that might have been a smirk. Still, he did not say _but you like me when I'm insolent, my lord._ Which would not have been true; Ryan did not like it. Walker's insolence showed in the his careless dress and the lack of due deference when he spoke to Spencer, the way he flirted with Miss Greta as easily with as with the scullery maid and then made them both laugh. It was intolerable.

"And your collar is inappropriate. Have you not the pride to aspire to the appearance of gentlemen as well as their manners?"

At that Walker actually smiled, a full-bloomed grin that would have been ridiculous on Ryan but somehow made Jon Walker look rakish.

"I had not realised that you were that bothered by my choice of neckwear, my lord."

"Well, it's indecent and you should cover yourself up. You are not Lord Way, Mr Walker, and there is no need for you to expose yourself to the elements in a quest for a more poetic appearance."

"As you say, my lord."

Walker's voice was mild and his face perfectly blank. Ryan clenched his fists and said nothing, despite the provocation.

"Is there something else I can help you with?"

Walker was laughing at him on the inside, he could tell. Ryan harrumphed, turned on his heel, and stomped away.

 

* * *

 

Brendon's first experience of Sir Spencer's dining room was that of relief. This was no huge hall with long tables and mountains of candles, but a warm room with a fireplace and yellow wallpaper. The windows were covered with pale yellow curtains, and there was no wind coming through. Even Brendon's toes were safe from draft.

The dining table had evidently been arranged with comfortable and informal meals in mind. Sir Spencer sat at the end of the table, next to Lord Ross and Casimir, while Miss Greta was hostess at the other end, with Alexander and Brendon at her sides. It was not unusual for tutors to be seated with the family, but this was the first time Brendon had been asked - Lady Palmer's children were too young to join her at the table, and both Mr Flowers and his sister held strong views about mixing with the help.

He knew how to eat and converse in polite society, of course - that had been one of the first things Patrick had taught him when they had decided that tutoring would be the best way for Brendon to earn an independent living. Still, there was a moment of dread when the food was brought in. He was not used to so many courses, and the potential for unfortunate splashing incidents was great. It all smelled so delicious as well - Brendon had not eaten properly since the previous evening, and neither the soup at the inn nor the piece of bread he had saved for this morning had been that filling.

He decided to start with potatoes. It would be hard to cause a splash with potatoes.

Brendon was in mid bite when Miss Greta turned to him, smiled winningly and began a conversation about Handel. Miss Greta had strong opinions on Handel, and Brendon was able to eat his way through the potatoes, some venison, and a small vegetable pie as she explained them. Fortunately, Brendon's skills in polite conversation included expressing agreement and interest through humming noises and a few heartfelt exclamations of 'indeed'. Miss Greta seemed greatly pleased with his views.

He had, at least, met Miss Greta and her little brother earlier. The housekeeper had given him a tour of the house which had included tea with Miss Greta in the blue drawing room (apparently this was Miss Greta's favourite), and a visit to the library. Alexander was a child with huge eyes and a plaintive countenance, and Brendon had been both impressed and alarmed by the high stack of books on his desk. Alexander had gazed at him mournfully for a few moments, but had at least condescended to speak English with Brendon, which, as he was told by the upstairs maid, was a rare thing. His sister, by contrast, showed no signs of shyness, and had welcomed Brendon with an almost alarming friendliness. Her insistence on showing him the music room and asking him to perform had been both terrifying (because of a new audience) and reassuring (because Brendon was never awkward with music).

She was also an uncommonly good hostess, Brendon realised after he had eaten a full meal in a strange place without any discomfort or accidents. There had been no time to worry about the curious glances that Casimir kept throwing in his direction or the scornful inattention of Lord Ross. Alexander was engaged in staring at what seemed to be his empty plate (Brendon suspected it was, in fact, a book held in his lap), and Sir Spencer focused alternatively on his ward, his friend, and his food. It was a calm and convivial meal, and Brendon decided he could be very happy here. The potatoes were most delicious.

"Have you been to Devon before, Mr Boyd?"

Brendon smiled at Miss Greta. He was prepared to love Devon just for the sake of its food.

"No, I'm sorry to say I have not had the pleasure. The countryside looks beautiful, though - such panoramic views! I expect it will be stunning in the summer."

The enthusiasm which Brendon brought to this statement, coupled with the wideness of his grin, made Miss Greta blink a few times, but the demure smile which rose on her lips in response was tinged with merriment.

"After London, I'm sure it must seem very dull. But we have our own amusements here. Exeter is only half a day's ride away, and there is good hunting around Cadminster and…"

"And balls at the Saporta house?"

Casimir's interruption was voiced with glee that betrayed his delight at his own cleverness, and the blush that coloured his sister's cheeks seemed only to add to his pleasure. Some boys, Brendon knew, liked to tease. He told himself it would be unfair to judge Casimir based on this one act, and increased his efforts to embody innocent curiosity.

"The Saporta house?"

"Count Gabriel Saporta is our closest neighbour. He owns the house two miles north of Cadmoor and he does, sometimes, host balls", Greta directed a withering glance at her brother, "but he is also a very amiable gentleman."

Her voice was firm, but there was a hint of secret pleasure that she could not quite suppress. This, in turn, prompted smiles from all around the table - even Alexander lifted his head from his book and blinked affectionately at his sister.

"What an unusual name." Brendon commented mildly. At the end of the table, Sir Spencer's gaze turned from fond to suspicious. Brendon smiled pleasantly at Miss Greta.

"He is originally from Spain, I believe. He bought the old Cunningham house a few years ago and has settled in well. He spends most of his time in London, of course, but he is well received around the area."

Brendon nodded solemnly. "Maintaining good relations with one's neighbours is important."

Miss Greta beamed. "It is! He has been a good friend to us all. Sometimes he goes hunting with my cousin and Lord Ross, and although they rarely catch anything, they seem to enjoy it very much."

An annoyed harrumph came from Brendon's right. He decided that it would be best not to look at Lord Ross in the face while he was imagining him atop a horse, scarves fluttering in the wind, being outwitted by a fox. Or possibly a small deer. Lord Ross, he suspected, was not a skilled hunter

"Count Saporta is easily distracted from the chase, my dear." Sir Spencer's voice was low and amused. Brendon turned to look at the remains of his dessert. "The end of hunting, he likes to say, is not to acquire a scrawny animal but adventure."

Greta grinned, her cheeks growing pink again. It gave her a most becoming air of animation. She would do well in society, Brendon decided. "He does seem fond of adventure."

"Yes, but as you know, adventure is not for everyone." Sir Spencer paused, his voice turning curiously bland. "Don't you think so, Mr Boyd?"

The fork Brendon had been using to scrape off the remains of his food (Not for eating, he knew better than that, but to occupy his hands which had threatened to tap the table with a most annoying beat) came to a halt. He raised his eyes, trying to look thoughtful instead of panicking.

Sir Spencer was watching him, one eyebrow raised politely, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. The proper response would, of course, be that adventure was not for young ladies, but that would also be a slight against Miss Greta whose good opinion was, as Brendon had discovered, crucial to his wellbeing at Cadwallan. To advocate adventuring for all, however, would be so inappropriate for a tutor as to be criminally foolish. Respectability, after all, was his occupation, and to tell a young lady, his pupil, that she ought to join the gentlemen in adventuring would both discredit him and suggest an improper interest in Miss Greta.

Brendon looked down modestly and placed his hands in his lap. When he raised his head, Alexander was staring at him, momentarily distracted from his Latin.

"Adventures of the mind are my forte, Sir Spencer, and I would be a poor scholar if I discouraged anyone from enjoying them. As Alexander knows, there are few things more exciting than Aeneas' flight from Troy, and the pleasure of that excitement is available for everyone. Don't you agree, Alexander?"

An unfortunate blush had began to rise on Alexander's neck as Brendon spoke, and he watched with horrified fascination as it coloured his cheeks with a remarkably ugly hue of vermilion. It occurred to Brendon, belatedly, that Alexander's reluctance to join in the conversation might have been caused by shyness as well as a distaste for the modern world. But Alexander was a game boy, it seemed, since he gulped loudly and nodded jerkily. "Indeed, Mr Boyd. I believe you're quite right."

The smile Brendon gave him might have been slightly manic in its gratitude, but Alexander returned it, albeit awkwardly.

 

* * *

 

Spencer was being deliberately annoying. Ryan had spent the last twenty minutes listing his complaints about the new governess, the meal, the weather and his new shoes, but Spencer showed no inclination to agree, and no willingness to soothe Ryan's racked soul by offering him Madeira or those tiny cakes he liked. Spencer was not, he decided, a true friend. It was too bad he could not tell him that - the jokes about Lord Way and his insufferable Claude would never end.

"I don't like Walker. He's too short."

"Too short for what?"

Ryan paused. Too short for everything sounded so silly when he thought about saying it aloud.

"He looks like a peasant. And his hands are too large and rough. He is probably covered in calluses." Ryan scowled, thinking of the roughness of Jon Walker's hands. "He doesn't look like a gentleman."

Spencer frowned. "Jon is a good man, and as I imagine he got his calluses from working on my land, I cannot really complain of them. Not that I would."

"And that's another thing. You call him Jon."

Spencer's eyebrows rose, delicately suggesting that he was not terribly impressed with Ryan's comment.

"You know we grew up together. It would be strange to call him by any other name, and he doesn't mind. Anyway, I have asked him to call me Spencer as well."

The impropriety of this made Ryan speechless for a moment. When he recovered, his voice shook with alarm.

"At least he has the good sense not to do that!"

"He does, but only when we're private."

Ryan harrumphed.

"Tis most inappropriate. I don't like him at all. He doesn't know his place."

The confusion conveyed by Spencer's eyebrows turned into surprise, and his mouth quirked with repressed glee. Ryan scowled again, in anticipation of mockery.

"Dear god, Ryan. You like him."

"I do not. He's a peasant."

"You like my Jon Walker."

"I don't like your Jon Walker! He's too short and his hands are too big!"

"Yes, and I wonder suddenly what he could do with those hands. How much strength there might be in those wide shoulders, how he might use them to keep things in place. Or move them apart." Spencer's smirk was truly evil. "What an inspiring thought you've had, my friend."

"Oh shut up, Spencer, and stop talking about your estate manager as if he were a pleasure slave."

"Sir Spencer?"

Jon Walker's calm voice, eternally hiding some private amusement, came from the half open door with a belated knock. Spencer, demonstrating once again how much he was a very bad friend, grinned and beckoned him in.

"Come in, Mr Walker. We were just discussing you."

Very bad friend. Ryan might have to make some creative suggestions to Casimir about where next to hide those slimy worms he liked to put in the cook's bed.

"Oh yes?"

Walker smiled like he, too, was in on the joke, which was especially infuriating as Ryan did not know what the joke was. Walker was a most aggravating man.

"Lord Ross expressed curiosity about the strength of your shoulders �" whether you have quite recovered from that accident with Mrs Price's carriage, that is, and are able to carry out your duties. You are well enough, are you not? All those palls of hay are not too taxing?"

Spencer did not even try to hold back his smile, and Walker's eyes crinkled until they were barely visible. He, at least, refrained from open laughter.

"That is very kind of you to ask, Lord Ross, but I assure you, I am returned to perfect health. You need not worry about my performance."

Ryan scowled, and determined that there would be worms in both their beds by tomorrow.

 

* * *

_  
6th April 1822  
Cadwallan House, Devon_

Dear Patrick,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am settled at Cadwallan House, and my duties are not too onerous. It is a large and pleasant house, with all the modern comforts one could imagine. I even have a fireplace in my room, and an attached writing closet where I am presently seated. We shall have to have writing closets in our retirement house, I have decided. Surely an extension or two would not be too much for your cottage?

The children have not been any trouble so far. My main charge is a boy of thirteen named Alexander, who suffers from a weakness of the lungs. This was the reason given for his departure from Harrow, but I suspect he would not done well there in any case. Alexander is a shy and retiring boy, who spends all his time immersed in Latin and Greek (I was told that before my arrival, he rarely deigned to converse in English). He is currently engaged with conquering the subjunctive, but I expect that in a few months I will be hard pressed to find new challenges for him in Latin. He has requested (with an adorable little pout that barely hides his endless longing for more grammar) to be allowed to prepare a translation of the Aeneid, as a reward for finishing the year two months early. I only hope that he does not choose to move on to the Georgics, as that might be hard to explain to my employer.

His older brother, Casimir, is much less keen and much more a typical gentleman scholar (the world used ironically, of course). He is surprisingly well behaved, though, and does the work even as he grumbles. I gather Sir Spencer (I mentioned him briefly in my earlier missive, did I not? Sir Spencer Smith, the owner of this manor and the stern guardian of his little cousins) has promised him a new carriage of some kind if he does well, and Casimir is frighteningly serious about his horses. We spent an extra hour translating a passage from the Iliad detailing all the mechanics of charioteering, and I have never seen him so animated. Casimir goes to Cambridge next year.

The eldest is Greta, who is a delightful young lady and very talented on the piano. My main duties are to accompany her on the piano when she sings or plays the harp, but she has also asked me play duets and sing with her. She has a beautiful, rich voice, and would have done well as a performer had she not been born a lady. She will have her first season next year, and wishes to do her best when called upon to perform, she says. I doubt she has anything to fear, but music seems to be her most favoured pastime, and situated in the middle of countryside as she is, there are few other amusements for a young lady.

They are all pleasant children, and I do not foresee any difficulties with them, nor with my employer. Sir Spencer is young to be in charge of such a large household (he cannot be more than twenty-five, and is, I suspect, younger than that), but he handles the responsibility well. He treats me with perfect politeness, and I have been invited to eat with the family every night. So not worry about me, dear Patrick, for I am content and well-fed! Over-fed, I might even say, since the cook has taken to having extra sandwiches brought up for me in the afternoons. She says I need fattening up, so you will be glad to hear you are not alone in that opinion. Her cakes, I should add, are a delight unimaginable to sober minds.

Please pass along my regards to William and the exalted ladies in the house, and remember to take care of yourself, dear Patrick. The price of extra candles is not worth more than your eyesight, and I am not above writing to Miss Asher and asking her to intervene if I am not convinced of your well being.

Your devoted friend and humble servant,

Brendon Boyd

 

* * *

 

25th April 1822  
The Vicarage  
Appleton, Lancashire

Dear Brendon,

Your new home seems pleasant indeed. I am glad to hear that you are eating well, and that there are people at Cadwallan who are looking after you - not that you cannot look after yourself, of course, but it relieves my mind to know that other people are also involved. Feel free to tell me all about the delicious cakes you are eating.

And thank you, Brendon, for your concern over my eyes. I have taken to spending evenings with William and the vicarage candles are long and sturdy, as you'll recall. The village would never let its beloved vicar ruin his eyes, so I am certain that mine shall be perfectly fine. The same cannot be said of you should you involve Miss Asher. You know my vengeance will be swift.

Your new employer sounds like a fine man, but I need not remind you to be careful. The politest of gentlemen may have hidden designs, and his youth is no guarantee of virtue, on the contrary, as you well know. But you would not allow yourself to be mistreated, and I am a foolish old woman to worry about you. You are capable of keeping yourself safe, Brendon, so do not listen to your silly old tutor. I am honestly pleased to see you happy and settled after the last few years.

Do not forget to enjoy the good weather while we have it - we have both spent enough hours in dark rooms and the sun will do you good.

Your friend,

Patrick M. Stump.  


 

* * *

 

The knock on the classroom door came in the early afternoon, half an hour after Brendon has been informed by Miss Greta that their piano practice would have to be rescheduled for another day. The man who had knocked was not tall, but he had a compact elegance that gave the impression of well-knit strength. Brendon noted that his brown hair curled around his ears, which warred with the maturity suggested by his short beard. He introduced himself as Jon Walker, estate manager, and inquired if Brendon was free this afternoon.

"Sir Spencer mentioned that you have not seen much of Cadwallan yet. If you're not busy now, I can give you a tour."

Walker's words carried an easy confidence that belied his position of authority. Brendon had been contemplating a few hours spent revising his Latin notes in light of Alexander's terrifying thirst for further knowledge (Brendon had awoken from more than one nightmare filled with Alexander's enormous eyes and serious face turned into a life-sucking monster clamouring for more subjunctive verbs), but admittedly, this contemplation had not brought him much joy.

Mr Walker seemed to sense this, as he grinned at the stack of papers Brendon was clutching and mildly noted that it was a beautiful day. Privately Brendon could admit to himself that it was the grin rather than the sunshine that convinced him to accept; a friendly invitation from another member of staff, especially one who also straddled the awkward fence between upstairs and downstairs, was not something to be turned down.

This was how Brendon found himself following Jon Walker (whose shoulders were broader but not as finely formed as Sir Spencer's, Brendon noted and then promptly castigated himself for noticing) to the stables and choosing a suitable mount with the gracious but unsubtly specific recommendation of his companion. Walker seemed to feel that Brendon's ideal horse was a small and sedate mare. Not that Brendon necessarily disagreed - he_ liked _well behaved horses who did not insist on challenging his mastery by trying to throw him off - but it left a small dent in his happiness about Walker's friendly manner. Then Brendon reminded himself that he was fortunate to be allowed (invited!) to ride at all, and if his companion was unconvinced by Brendon's competence there would, at least, be an opportunity to prove him wrong.

It was a beautiful day, as Walker had said. They rode mostly in silence, Walker occasionally pointing out a tenant's cottage, a field of barley, or the road to a nearby pond. This gave Brendon time to enjoy the smell of grass, and the almost overwhelming vision of endless green that filled his sight. It also allowed him to cast a few considering glances at his companion. Walker held the reins with effortless competence, and Brendon was becoming increasingly aware of how long it had been since the last time he had been on a horse. Lady Palmer would have let him use one of her mounts, if he'd asked, but the streets of London, filled as they were with carriages and pedestrians, had not tempted Brendon to ride. The presence of other riders would not have made the experience more pleasurable, especially in such narrow confines. Brendon leaned down and patted his horse, just as a thank you for not being easily spooked. She was also not owned by a bored young gentleman conscious of his own station and its uses, Brendon reminded himself. She would not throw him off.

"Have you been to Devon before, Mr Boyd?"

It was evident Brendon had been distracted for a while, but Walker's lazy smile suggested that he did not mind. Brendon grinned back, warmed by the smile and the sun on his face, and thought of nothing but pure grass for a moment.

"No, I haven't. My previous post was in London. Nothing like this."

"Not much space for riding, then?"

"Not much space, no."

Walker nodded, as if to say he was perfectly familiar with the difficulties of horse riding in London. It occurred to Brendon that Walker, despite his obvious attachment to this land, was probably a well-travelled man. He would have business all around the country.

"Is that where you're from, then?"

"No, I'm…I am originally from Lancashire."

Walker looked at him briefly, then turned back on the road. "Oh yes? From near the Yorkshire border?"

The glare of the sun was hard on his face, and Brendon hoped that any sickening whiteness might be attributed to that. But Walker would not have noticed; he was not even looking at Brendon. Brendon swallowed and tried to make sure his voice was steady.

"No, no, from near Manchester. Actually."

Walker shrugged and gave Brendon a brief look from under his lashes. He had long, curling lashes, Brendon thought absently.

"Oh well. I just thought I heard the trace of a Yorkshire accent. I've got a friend who's from up there."

Brendon looked at the road and tried to smile.

"I imagine it's hard to tell the difference, sometimes. Besides, I have lived in the south for six years now, I doubt there are any traces left. They train you out of that in London."

Walker nodded. Brendon said no more, and patted his horse again.

"She's behaving well for you, isn't she?"

The brown mare was warm and smooth under Brendon's fingers. He kept stroking her hair with his free hand and gave his companion a benevolent smile.

"Yes, she's being wonderful. I forgot to ask this earlier, but what is her name?"

Walker gave an embarrassed cough and turned to watch the road. "Walburga."

Brendon blinked. Walker stared resolutely at the road. Brendon blinked again.

"Walburga? After the poem?"

Walker was looking actively pained now and his ears began to turn pink.

"Yes. Miss Greta chose it when she was a child and she was, ahem, very insistent about it."

"Miss Greta was allowed to read _Walburga; The Wronged Witch_? As a child?"

"I believe Lord Ross gave it to her as a joke. Sir Spencer had some strong words with him about that."

Brendon tried to imagine a tiny Miss Greta engrossed with Lord Way's most bloodthirsty poem.

"Still, I am surprised that she would have named her horse after it."

"She said it would give her a fiery spirit and a taste for justice."

Brendon and Walker both turned to look at the mare. She continued to wonder placidly along the road.

"I think those might have been Lord Ross's words. But she took them to heart."

"I see."

There was a fond look on Walker's face as he leaned over to pat Brendon's horse.

"But she's a good girl and won't lead you wrong. Wally has taken me up and down this country and never so much as lost a shoe. She's a hard worker and knows that we'll treat her right. Never complains, never gets ill."

Brendon smiled down at her.

"Nothing that a bundle of hay won't cure."

When Brendon glanced up, there was a strange look in Walker's eyes.

"That's an unusual saying."

Brendon shrugged and turned back to the road. His shoulders grew straighter.

"It's something a friend of mine used to say. A good horse has no problems that a bundle of hay won't cure."

It felt strange to say that, after all these years, but the words had come to him and there had been, Brendon thought, no danger in indulging them. The curious tone of Walker's voice, however, made him reconsider.

"Your friend was keen on his horses, then. Most people wouldn't bother about what kept them fed."

Because a friend of Brendon's would be, presumably, a gentleman and therefore somebody who would own a horse rather than take care of it. A vision of Tom, laughing and throwing straws at Brendon, his hair glinting in the sunlight, rose unbidden to his mind, but Brendon was pleased to note that his voice was perfectly smooth.

"Yes, he was."

Ahead of them, the country lane was turning into a road; to the left, the city of Exeter, to the right, the village of Cadmoor. Two riders were approaching at a slow trot from the Cadmoor side. The sun was behind them, but Brendon recognised the form and carriage of Sir Spencer Smith, and concluded that the tall, thin shape beside him must be Lord Ross. Beside him, Walker started to slow their pace and by the time the two men were at talking distance, Walker's horse had come to a halt. A sudden and inexplicable slouch seemed to have taken over his body.

Sir Spencer greeted them with an open smile, Lord Ross with a disgruntled pout. A brief glance at Walker revealed that the grin on his face had become, if possible, even more lazy, and that his posture was beginning to look painful.

"Good afternoon, Mr Boyd, Mr Walker. You've been seeing the lands, I take it?"

Brendon turned to Walker, but he was chewing a straw (where had he acquired a straw, Brendon wondered) and grinning at Lord Ross. Lord Ross huffed and stared pointedly at the road. Realising that it was up to him to continue the conversation, Brendon put on a bright smile and turned to face Sir Spencer.

"Indeed, Sir Spencer. Mr Walker has been kind enough to give me the tour of Cadwallan, and after hearing Miss Greta sing the praises of Devon, I could not turn down the opportunity to see more if its wonders. Your land has great natural beauty, Sir Spencer."

It occurred to Brendon sometime in the middle of this sentence that his expression might be getting somewhat manic, but Sir Spencer did not seem to mind. His answering smile made his cheeks stretch and Brendon found himself momentarily dazzled. Something to do with the brightness of the sun, no doubt.

"I am glad to see you enjoy it, Mr Boyd. This is the best time of the year for seeing it, and it would be a shame for you to miss it."

Brendon nodded and smiled again. Beside him, Walker was still sucking on his straw, and smirking whilst gazing casually at the ground. Lord Ross, by turn, was glaring at Walker with the full force of his annoyance.

"Is this your first visit to the village?" Sir Spencer inquired politely, with a mild eye roll at his friend, which Brendon pretended not to notice.

"Oh yes. Mr Walker has promised to introduce me to the pastries at the inn - I hear they are famous all over the county. I am looking forward to sample them."

Lord Ross let out a harrumphing noise. Sir Spencer rolled his eyes again, and smirked at his friend.

"Indeed, we have been sampling them ourselves just now. The innkeeper's daughter said that this morning's batch had been particularly successful. Something about the extra cloves?"

"The extra nutmeg." Lord Ross's interruption came in an exasperated voice which made Sir Spencer grin wider. "She had added extra nutmeg today, she said."

"And how is Miss Margery?"

Walker's voice was impeccably polite, but somehow it caused Lord Ross's brow to furrow in a furious scowl and his voice to turn into a low hiss.

"She seemed to be in perfect health. But no doubt you'll be able to see for yourself soon enough."

After that, Lord Ross clamped his mouth shut tight and turned on Sir Spencer with an expression which indicated that they ought to be going now. Sir Spencer gave Walker a mildly disapproving look, but bid them goodbye with civility and good humour.

As they continued on the road to the village, Brendon waited until they were out of earshot.

"Miss Margery is the innkeeper's daughter?"

Walker winked at him.

"And a fine lass in every way. No one draws a better pint in all the county."

Brendon took a moment to consider how to phrase his next question.

"Is Lord Ross not fond of good pints, then?"

The look Walker gave him was thoughtful and somehow approving.

"I believe Lord Ross prefers wine to ale. You could say that he finds the village pub to be beneath him."

"But did they not…"

"But Sir Spencer, he enjoys a variety of beverages. And as the local squire, he feels that it is his duty to visit the local inn, and he can usually convince Lord Ross to join him. I believe the pastries help."

Something about this was evidently hilarious, but as Walker did not seem inclined to share the joke, Brendon did not press the matter.

By the time they had arrived at the inn, late afternoon sun was shining into Brendon's eyes and the cool shade under a massive oak tree, where a few tables had been thoughtfully scattered, looked utterly tempting. Walker glanced briefly at his face and sent Brendon off to sit down while he dealt with the horses and the drinks.

The first taste of ale (the famous Cadminster Brew, Walker informed him) made Brendon frown, but the second one made him thoughtful and by the third, he was prepared to concede that there might be a point to all this. Giving Walker a careful look (to ascertain that he had took no notice of Brendon deep thoughts on ale), he spoke with a casual air.

"Sir Spencer and Lord Ross. They are old friends, I take it?"

Walker pursed his mouth and nodded, then put his pint down. He gazed at his drink thoughtfully.

"They went to school together. Lord Ross used to spend all his holidays here with Sir Spencer's family - that would have been old Sir Anthony and Lady Charlotte, and Miss Georgiana and Miss Caroline. When Sir Anthony died and Lady Charlotte went to live with Miss Georgiana and her husband, Lord Ross came to live here. He visits London often enough - Sir Spencer used to as well, before the children - but mostly he still lives here."

"Does he have a house of his own, or…?"

"Yes, somewhere in Wiltshire, Ross Hall. But it's been in ruins for years now, and after Lord Ross's father died he hasn't set foot in there. They weren't on good terms."

At this juncture, a young lady with golden brown curls came over with a jug of ale. Brendon could see the freckles on her breast when she leaned over to pour him a drink. He blinked at them, and felt a blush rising under his collar. This ale must have been very strong.

Jon Walker, being clearly an evil man, winked at him and then laid a friendly hand on the young lady's arm. His fingers tugged lightly on her sleeve, incongruously brown and sturdy-looking against the thin white cloth.

"Miss Margery, this is Mr Boyd, who has come to teach Latin and Greek to the boys at Cadwallan. It is his first visit to the Cow and Bell, and he has never had the pleasure of tasting your pastries. You know what a sad thing it is for a young man to live without such joys in his life. Please, Miss Margery, won't you be kind and spare him from such misery?"

Walker's brown eyes were wide with pleading innocence, and Brendon could see that despite her exasperated look, Miss Margery was pleased.

"Aye, it would be a shame indeed. And let me guess, while I'm at it, you'd like some too?"

Walker's roguish look turned momentarily mournful.

"A man who turns down your pastries is a fool indeed, Miss Margery, and I'm not a fool."

"What you are, Johnny Walker, is a wicked boy. You don't deserve my pastries."

Walker's teeth were white against his dark beard.

"But what could a man do to deserve such heavenly delights? Just say the word and I am yours to command!"

Miss Margery shook her head, but returned soon with the heavenly pastries. Brendon watched as she bent over their table, giving Walker an intimate view of her neckline and brushing his face with her hair. When Walker's hand came to rest on her waist, he looked quickly down at his pastry and tried to give the appearance of being entranced with the admittedly delicious smell rising from it. He heard a slide of cloth followed by a muffled smack, and raised his head to see the young woman walk away with a flounce of her skirts. Walker grinned at him and bit into his pastry.

Brendon considered the amount of ale he had enjoyed, and the number of pints Walker had consumed. Carefully, he widened his eyes ever so slightly, and gave Walker his most innocent, inquisitive look.

"Miss Margery seems very friendly. And rather fond of you."

Walker nodded around his pastry. Brendon took a hasty bite of his so as to have something to do while waiting for Walker to finish his chewing.

"She is a friendly lass. And I'm a likeable man." Walker winked.

Brendon gave a solemn nod.

"You are courting her, then?"

The slow smile that took over Walker's face had a sly look. Brendon concluded that Walker had a secret that he was extremely pleased with.

"No, I'm just being friendly here. My mind is set on somebody else."

Brendon raised his eyebrows lightly, but Walker merely smirked and took another bite of his pastry. It would seem the secret was not only delightful but also, well, secret. And it wouldn't do for Brendon to show too much curiosity over the affairs of others.

"You were right, these are delicious. Perhaps we should bring some back to the house."

Brendon was almost sure Walker's eyes actually twinkled at that.

"Perhaps we should."

 

* * *  
_  
15th June 1822  
Cadwallan House, Devon_

Dear Patrick,

I hope all is well with you. I am pleased to hear that you have not been solely engaged in solitary pursuits since my departure. Miss Asher's letter tells me that you have been a frequent visitor at the Apple House and that on one occasion, have even condescended to perform a duet with William. How very forward of you, dear Patrick. I did not realise that my presence all these years had suppressed your outgoing nature and kept you from the larger stage of life. May we soon expect to hear of you displaying your talents at the Opera in London?

My life at Cadwallan continues smoothly. Alexander has been engrossed with his translation for the last three weeks, and it takes some effort to make him join us for meals, but his sister has developed a tickling technique which is most persuasive. This has left me with many unoccupied hours, but fortunately, the estate manager at Cadwallan (a most amiable young gentleman named Jonathan Walker, did I mention him in my previous?) has kindly offered to introduce me to the entertainments available here. These mostly consist of the local inn and large quantities of local ale - I have been told that after tasting the Cadminster Brew, it would be highly impolitic of me to so much as mention any other beer, and that I am expected to defend its honour whenever foolish foreigners (that is, anybody from not around here) question its value. So, consider yourself informed, Patrick - this is the best ale in the world, and anyone who says otherwise will feel the force of my arm.  
Mr Walker holds an indeterminate position in the household, somewhat analogous to my own. He has grown up on the estate and played with Sir Spencer as a child, and it is obvious that they are still fond of each other. There is less formality that one might expect between a squire and his steward, and this extends to Sir Spencer's cousins as well. Jon Walker is among the people Miss Greta recruits to assist in her dancing practice (not that she needs the practice, but when she insists and we all agree), along with her brother, Sir Spencer, and her humble tutor. Lord Ross, who is Sir Spencer's particular friend and lives at Cadwallan, has been relieved of this duty after ruining too many of Miss Greta's shoes - understandable, although I admit to some enjoyment in observing Lord Ross's unique approach to dancing. The refusal of his limbs to cooperate puts yours to shame, dear Patrick.

All of which is to say that the prevalent approach to social standing in this house is somewhat fluid. It has made me a little uncomfortable at times, as it makes it difficult for me to understand what is expected of me, but I think I have managed well so far. Jon Walker is a good guide for navigating the habits of this house, and he has been generous with his time and attention. And before you reproach me for developing a dangerous intimacy with a young man, I must tell you that there is nothing improper between Jon Walker and myself. So do not worry on that account. I am safe and well.

I hope that summer has arrived in Lancashire as well, and that the heat is not as strong in the north as it is here. I am feeling the oppression of being clothed more than usual, and the temptation to avail myself of a nearby pond is strong, although still successfully resisted. Wish me continued success.

Your devoted friend,  
Brendon Boyd

 

* * *

 

22nd June  
The Vicarage  
Appleton, Lancashire

Dear Brendon,

I hope this letter finds you well, and clothed. Thank you for the attack of the nerves which your previous letter gave me - yes, I can understand the temptation of a pond in this weather (the heat has arrived in Lancashire as well, and we do not enjoy the closeness to the sea that you do), but please refrain from nudity whilst in public. As difficult as it might be.

As for my performances with William, I do not have any plans to expose myself to public shame, in London or elsewhere, but thank you for your enquiry. I have had words with Miss Asher about sharing impertinent details with you, but I fear she failed to see the danger of communicating with you. I hope you are more decorous in your letters to her than you are to me.

I am pleased to hear that you have made a friend, and particularly one who understand the difficulty of your position. That said, Brendon, please do not make such references as you did in your letter. We are not rich enough to ensure that our letters will not fall into wrong hands, and the risk of misunderstanding is great, and unnecessary. I am sorry to have to tell you to curb your expressions, but you know why I have to. We must be respectable and employed if our plans for comfortable retirement are to pass. How will we acquire your writing closet otherwise, and extra candles for my weak eyes?

Your anxious but resigned old friend,  
Patrick M. Stump

  
* * *

 

It was not yet dark, but Brendon was looking forward to a restful evening in his comfortable bed. Casimir had spent today's lesson staring out of the window and sighing, and Brendon had had to refrain from pointing out that yes, he too would rather be outside enjoying the fine weather but regardless of the sunshine there was still work to be done on Casimir's Greek verbs. Which would take much less time if Casimir ceased his sighing and actually opened his book. Of course, Brendon could not actually say this, or do anything other than present mild suggestions. Despite his air of carefree benevolence, Casimir was a young gentleman and young gentlemen, in Brendon's experience, did not take well to being given orders by their subordinates. And friendly as Casimir was (he had once spent an entire afternoon trying to convince Brendon to call him 'Cash' - apparently that had been his name at school), it would be imprudent to take the risk.

Brendon's bed, on the other hand, was entirely free of frustrations and anxieties, not to mention verbs of any kind. It was the most luxurious bed he had ever slept in, all soft feathers and fresh linen, and Brendon had developed a great attachment to it. He intended to acquire one just like it when he retired. Brendon tried to imagine Patrick's small cottage, its tiny nooks crowded with books, hosting a giant bed. Perhaps they could build an extra room just for it. Brendon decided to put aside a few more guineas this month, for the sake of his future bed.

But despite all the delights of his wonderful bed, Brendon was not quite ready to sleep yet. The library, he decided, would be empty this time of day; Alexander was definitely in bed by now and Lord Ross had taken off after dinner - apparently he enjoyed evening strolls in the orchard. A long novel would do very well, perhaps a Richardson or a Burney. Brendon was particularly fond of _Evelina._

This settled, Brendon made his way downstairs, walking quickly past the room where Greta was playing the piano and opened the library door silently and smoothly. He walked into a room filled with smells of outside air - the windows were open, he realised, the curtains wafting gently with the breeze. Not an astonishing thing for a summer's eve, but one that only occurred when the library was occupied. Closing the door behind him, Brendon looked around to find the likely visitor.

Sir Spencer was sprawled on an armchair next to the now cold fireplace. There was a tiny wooden table before him and on it, a thick bottle of pale wine. A glass of that same wine was hanging loosely from Sir Spencer's fingers, and there was a slight flush on his cheeks as he leaned back and looked at Brendon. Sir Spencer had taken off the waistcoat he had worn to dinner and his white shirt was opened at the collar, his neckcloth thrown over the small sofa next to the armchair.

Brendon, whose neckcloth had been carefully folded back into his closet and whose waistcoat was currently unwrinkling atop a bowl of warm water, felt the shabbiness of his appearance keenly. He gave a little cough and squared his shoulders.

"My apologies, Sir Spencer, I had thought the library unoccupied. I shall not disturb you further."

Sir Spencer blinked at him, then smiled. It might not have been as lazy as Jon Walker's unrepentantly indolent smirks, but it had a definitely languorous air.

"Mr Boyd, I am not bothered in the slightest. You have come for a book, I take it?"

Brendon shuffled on his feet, and then made himself stop. There was nothing to be gained from such a display of nerves.

"Yes, Sir Spencer. I had thought…something to read before bed. You have a large collection of novels here. If you do not mind, that is?"

"Not at all. Please help yourself to anything you might like. What were you in the mood for tonight?"

Sir Spencer's eyes were politely inquisitive over the rim of his glass, but a low note in his voice made Brendon pause. He thought of mentioning _Evelina_, or _Sir Charles Grandison_, but bringing attention to tales of courtship and heroic rescues from social ruin was perhaps not something that he should to do. For a man of his station it might be unseemly.

"I had nothing in particular in mind. Perhaps a play of Shakespeare's."

Sir Spencer nodded, and took another sip of his drink, leaving his mouth shining with wetness. Brendon felt the first stirrings of dizziness in his stomach.

"Well, it isn't Shakespeare, but he is thought by some to be the greatest poet of our times. Are you familiar with Lord Way's work, Mr Boyd?"

Brendon's eyed narrowed a little as Sir Spencer's features formed into another deceptively lazy look. Lord Way, the most famous (and infamous) poet of the day, had left England six years earlier amidst rumours of sodomy and incest. Like many boys of his age, Brendon had aspired to being a Gerardic hero; perhaps a melancholy knight like Olivier, or a noble pirate thirsting for justice like Tancred. His favourite, though, had been Claude whose endless and tormented journey had been rewarded with the discovery of a true friend. _The Unicorn Heart _was the only book he had taken with him when he had left his father's house.

Still, to admit being an admirer of Lord Way could be a dangerous statement to make. Generally, it was a risk Brendon preferred not to take; he kept his books wrapped up in old nightclothes and only took them out on rare occasions. In any case, there was little need to reread - Brendon had translated _The Unicorn Heart_, _The Knight of the Wolf _and_ The Pyrate _into Latin, and was currently in the process of translating those versions into Greek. By this point, the words of the poems were etched into his mind.

Yet, Sir Spencer had named Way as a great poet, and that was a volume of _David and Jonathan _on his lap. Brendon could, perhaps, confess to some knowledge.

"Yes, sir, I have read some of his works."

Sir Spencer raised an eyebrow. He had a tendency to do that, Brendon had noted. Then the brow righted itself, and Sir Spencer's face turned into a slow, curving smile.

"Why don't you join me for a drink, Mr Boyd? I would appreciate your opinion on matters of poetry."

For a moment Brendon stood still. There were a number of ways in which such a conversation might prove regrettable, but of course, an invitation from one's employer was not to be turned down. As Sir Spencer undoubtedly knew. Then again, the reasons given why governesses (Brendon took a moment to inwardly curse Lord Ross) were discouraged from spending time alone with their employers or from accepting drinks from them did not apply in this case. There was little likelihood of ravishment, for one.

Hastily banishing that thought from his brain (cursed, cursed Lord Ross!), Brendon stepped slowly towards his host, and seated himself on the edge of the sofa. Sir Spencer gave him a bright smile (Brendon glanced at the bottle to see how much of the wine had been drunk), then leaned down to seek another glass from under his chair. At Brendon's curious look, he shrugged. "Lord Ross enjoys wine with his books."

Brendon nodded and said nothing. He accepted the drink, but his smile felt a little tired after a long day of cheerfulness. Taking a sip, he tried to find encouragement in the cool liquid; it was thicker than he'd expected, and sweeter.

"It's white port, from Pinhao in the north of Portugal. Lord Ross and I went there during our Grand Tour and ever since he's insisted on having the exact same wine exported. The regular stuff isn't as good, apparently."

Sir Spencer liked to talk about his friend (and talk to his friend, and tease him, Brendon knew), and Brendon had given up on trying to find reasons why a man of his station would choose to share such details of his life with someone like Brendon. Most gentlemen preferred to pretend that people of his position were invisible - perhaps this was Sir Spencer's way of talking to himself.

"Is the wine to your taste, Mr Boyd?"

Brendon nodded, took another sip, and smiled. "It is very refreshing. Thank you."

Sir Spencer nodded as well and poured himself some more.

"Now then, what do you think about this one?" He gestured towards the copy of_ David and Jonathan _in his lap. Brendon's eyes followed. He took another sip.

"I understand it was very well received. Even the_ Edinburgh Magazine _has deigned to acknowledge its merits."

Sir Spencer smirked. "Yes, I know. But what did you think? Does the poem live up to its reputation?"

Brendon placed his glass carefully on the table. "I thought it was rather well executed. Lord Way has a talent for verse that is rarely matched."

"And what of the subject matter? Not too scandalous for your eyes, I take it."

There was a glint in Sir Spencer's eye that might have been a cause for unease, but Brendon merely lifted his drink to his lips, watching his companion over the brim. He had views on Way's poetry in the same way he had views on music - this was a conversation he had rehearsed many times, with Patrick and William and even the Countess Ballato. He had learned to defend his position.

"The story of David and Jonathan is in the Bible - it would be hard to argue that the topic itself is immoral. And regardless of the rumours around him, Lord Way is careful not to suggest that there is anything improper between David and Jonathan. Friendship, he says, is the theme of his song."

"What of their brotherly embraces?"

Brendon widened his eyes and allowed his mouth to protrude slightly in puzzlement. His youthful looks had allowed him to maintain a stance of steadfast innocence many a time.

"What would be immoral about brotherly embraces? There can be comfort in the clasp of friendly arms, and we must remember that at that point in the story they have been marching in battle for many months. Surely the companionship that can grow in such circumstances, without the presence of women, may take the form of innocent embraces? The solitary life they would lead…"

His voice was getting away with him, growing impassioned and too loud for a gentleman's library. A hitch rose in his throat, and Brendon paused and reached for his glass. The wine burned in his throat, but the too-large swallows that he took would excuse any sting is his eyes.

After a moment Brendon realised that Sir Spencer had remained motionless for the past several minutes. There was a considering look in his eyes that seemed to pin Brendon to his seat.

"I see you've given this a lot of thought."

A dread began to grow in Brendon's belly. With the best of intentions, there were ways to interpret his words as declarations of guilty sympathies, and Brendon had no notion what Sir Spencer's intentions were. The satisfied curve of his host's mouth remained unmoved and gave nothing away. Brendon made himself stand up and tried to breathe.

"Was this a test, Sir Spencer?"

A few years ago Brendon would have raised his voice, given expression to his anger about the injustice of it all, but that would be an indulgence he could little afford. Now, he merely widened his eyes a little, and made sure his voice was clear and serious. If Sir Spencer chose to terminate his employment, it would not be over his misbehaviour.

Sir Spencer's face was equally serious, but he did not seem angry. His eyes had a thoughtful look, and Brendon found himself growing nervous over what he might have accidentally revealed. Swallowing, he wet his lips and tried to project innocence and integrity.

"I apologise, Mr Boyd. This was no test - indeed, let me reassure you that at no point during your employment will you be subjected to such tests - I was merely curious about your thoughts on Way's poetry. But I expressed myself poorly and made you uncomfortable, and for that I beg your pardon."

Brendon swallowed again. Sir Spencer was looking at him with intent and evident sincerity, and it made Brendon sick in the stomach. His voice felt like it was breaking.

"There is no need to apologise, Sir Spencer, the mistake was mine. Please accept my apologies."

After a long pause, Sir Spencer nodded. Brendon could not bear to look up anymore, so he stared at the carpet and tried to refrain from vomiting. Breathing deeply did not help, but counting his breaths at least distracted him from how badly he wanted to faint.

He had barely managed to resettle his stomach when a touch on his arm sent another shock through his body. A hand had come to rest lightly on his sleeve, seeping warmth, and suddenly all of his blood was rushing through his ears and he could not move. He had not heard Sir Spencer approach, yet there he was, standing less than a foot away, watching Brendon struggle to breathe. He did not move away when Brendon jerked under his hand.

Sir Spencer's voice was low and warm. "We can exchange apologies all night, so let us agree that I'll accept your apology if you'll accept mine. It was a misunderstanding and we have settled it like gentlemen. There's no need to discuss it further."

Brendon still didn't have much breath left, but he was able to nod. Sir Spencer gave him another intense look, then stepped back. Brendon resisted the urge to press his hand to his heart. He was not a fainting governess.

Sir Spencer had gone back to the tiny table and as Brendon watched, poured the last of the wine into their glasses. He held one out to Brendon.

"To rational discourse and amicable resolutions?"

Despite his discomfort, Brendon's mouth twitched in a brief smile. The wine was still thick and sweet on his tongue, and after all his turmoil he had some trouble swallowing, but he managed, despite Sir Spencer's proximity and intense stare. It did not lessen when Brendon finished his drink and looked for a place to put his glass, but became speculative rather than concerned. Sir Spencer was standing too close, again, and Brendon was exquisitely aware of how he easily he might reach out and touch.

"Well, it is time for me to retire. Thank you for the drink, Sir Spencer, and I am sorry to have engaged in such hysterics…"

"No need for that, Mr Boyd. And you're welcome."

The words might have been comforting, but they were accompanied by Sir Spencer's hand on Brendon's shoulder, his thumb almost brushing Brendon's throat. Brendon tried to take a deep breath and somehow show that he was not terrified by a friendly gesture.

"Are you well, Mr Boyd?" The thumb moved, and Brendon jerked away with all the awkwardness he could muster, not caring how strange and nervous he looked.

"The wine must have been a little strong for me, I fear. I had better go and sleep it off. Good night!"

Even though he managed to avoid looking directly at Sir Spencer, the image of cool and considering eyes stayed in his mind until he was safe in his room.

 

* * *

 

It was only because it had been so long since somebody touched him, Brendon told himself. The wine was still raging in his head and making him shake, but wiping his face with cool water, putting away his clothes and shoes and changing into his nightshirt helped. Brendon knew how to deal with problems, had learned to arrange things so that he could handle them. He would sit down and think about it, and all would be well.

Brendon gathered all the sheets and made himself a cocoon on the bed. Sir Spencer had apologised and said there was nothing further to discuss; that at least left the possibility of no overt consequences. Sir Spencer had appeared to understand why Brendon might have been upset and how the misunderstanding happened. This would make it more difficult to create trouble for Brendon, since Sir Spencer evidently liked to see himself as a fair man and a kind employer.

It also made it unlikely that Sir Spencer would ask for his company in the future, which could only be a blessing. If Brendon was unable to handle friendly gestures such as hands on his shoulder, well intentioned though they might be, it would be foolish put himself in a position where they were likely to occur.

Brendon remembers the last time someone had touched him with affection. When he had first arrived at Patrick's door, dirty and exhausted and starving after three days of walking and sleeping in ditches, Patrick had simply asked him in and given him tea. Brendon had said_ please _and _I had to leave _and _they threw me out_, and Patrick had nodded and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. When Brendon had explained, with choked up words and half sentences, about Tom and the look on his father's face when he had found them, Patrick had pulled him into a tight embrace and held on until Brendon stopped crying. He had made Brendon take a bath and carried the water himself. Afterwards he had made Brendon sit by the fire and given him Lord Way's _David and Jonathan_. It had been published only a few weeks earlier, but even Brendon's little village in North Yorkshire had heard of it - the infamous Lord Way, exiled for his immoral habits, flaunting his sodomitical desires by writing yet another poem about intimate male friendship.

It had been dawn before Brendon finished. Patrick had stayed up with him, making further cups of tea as needed and conversation when Brendon paused in his reading. They talked about the solitary existence of man and the need for companionship, and the dread of war and loss that David and Jonathan had faced, and the need for a true friend. Brendon told Patrick that he had read _The Unicorn Heart _to Tom, and Tom had made ridiculous faces and called Claude the wandering knight a daft man, but Brendon had not minded.

By the morning, Brendon had been sufficiently strengthened to keep himself calm, and there had been no more affectionate gestures. Patrick was not physically demonstrative man, and Brendon did not like the pinched look on his face that came whenever Brendon sat too close. He did not think it was because of his inclinations - Patrick had sat him down and given him a long lecture on staying true to one's nature - but he did not like to make Patrick uncomfortable. He suspected there were ghosts in Patrick's own past and Brendon understood the value of keeping such ghosts locked away.

Lady Palmer's children had been warm in the way children are, but Brendon had taught himself not to feel it when they touched him; it was better when he did not care. This would not be a problem with Sir Spencer's cousins; Greta was too proper, Alexander too serious, and Casimir too unconcerned with others to lay a hand on him.

Yet it was not the children that he should worry about here. Brendon pulled the sheets tighter around himself, determined to control himself better.

 

* * *

 

The pond was only a half a mile's walk from the manor. Ryan had made the journey several times as a boy, sometimes with Spencer, sometimes alone when the loudness of family life became too much. It was good for swimming, he knew. The water wasn't deep and in the summer it stayed warm for hours, cooling down just enough to wash off the dust of a long day.

He slowed down as he approached the pond. The sky wasn't dark yet, but sun had already dipped below the forest to the west of the pond and it became harder to see his feet. Ryan was staring at the ground, looking for treacherous rocks, when he came across a pile of clothes.

A faded white shirt, the cuffs a little frayed. A pair of old-fashioned tweed breeches in a truly hideous shade of green that Ryan remembered observing (and commenting scathingly on) before. No shoes or socks.

Jon Walker.

As if bidden by the thought, a figure rose from the water. A naked, male figure. Ryan felt his mouth open, then move into a scowl.

Walker's shoulders were straight but his carriage was relaxed. As Ryan watched, he began to move closer, bringing the level of water from waist-high to barely covering his modesty, and threatening exposure with every breath. The trail of dark hair on Walker's chest glistened wetly and Ryan realised abruptly that he was visibly ogling. His eyes snapped to Walker's face and the ever-present smirk.

"What brings you out here tonight, my lord?"

Ryan gritted his teeth. He knew that voice, low and carefully modulated to reveal just the tiniest bit of roughness. Walker used it to tease and cajole and flirt, and Ryan hated it.

"I'm here for a swim. I didn't realise the pond was frequented by the likes of you."

For a moment, Walker's features hardened, but soon the angelic smile returned. He took a step closer and Ryan did not look down.

"Surely there is room for both of us in here. Or do you require the whole pond for your needs?"

Ryan swallowed, then lifted his chin.

"I do not wish the share the pond with you, Mr Walker. Now, if you're quite finished…?"

Walker took another step, then another, and another. Ryan looked on with a strange burning in his stomach as Walker rose from the pond and came to stand only a few feet from him. He did not look away from Walker's face, where a most terrifying, suggestive smile was forming.

"Who says I'm finished?"

Ryan closed his eyes. When he opened them a drop fell from Walker's mess of wet curls and landed on his shoulder. Helplessly, Ryan watched as it moved down, across one dark nipple, along the pale skin covering Walker's ribs, disintegrating over the muscles on his belly. He swallowed again, but did not look away. That would mean admitting defeat, after all. Clearly Walker had no shame and wanted to be observed.

"Enjoying yourself?"

It was the closeness of the voice that made Ryan realise how little space there was between, how easy it would be to reach out and follow the drop with his finger. For a moment he thought about it, about what Walker's skin would feel like (_rough_, his brain said, _rough and firm_). Then he stepped back and spoke, his voice cold and furious.

"Your insolence knows no boundaries, I see, and no shame. You should remember your place, Walker, and keep your filthy mouth to yourself."

Walker's mouth widened into a lazy grin and Ryan realised that somehow he had given Walker an advantage. As Walker's gaze moved down his body in a slow repeat of Ryan's earlier gawking, he felt himself blush.

"Should I? And what is my place, my lord? I see you have given this much thought."

For a moment Ryan couldn't breathe, the jolt through his body too great to be contained. Then, as Walker's insolent smirk was joined by a raised eyebrow, Ryan became angry. It was enough that Walker should spout such intolerable things into his ears at every opportunity, but this was too much. Ryan was, he reminded himself, well versed in such games. It would not do to allow a country bumpkin like Walker to best him.

Ryan smiled and lifted his chin. His voice was steady and cool. "On your knees, I should think. And if you can't keep your mouth shut, I can fill it for you."

It was highly satisfying to see Walker blink, and stumble lightly as he stepped closer. Then it occurred to Ryan that he might actually do it, open Ryan's trousers with his rough fingers and spread his lips for Ryan's cock. The image was suddenly vivid in his mind, and Ryan had to press his nails into his palms to clear his head.

But Walker's grin had turned into a sober smile.

"If I thought that you would return the favour, I'd go down on my knees right now."

There was an almost regretful determination in Walker's tone. It warred with the evocative vision his words produced, and Ryan could not make sense of it, could not reconcile the strange disappointment with the want suddenly gnawing at his belly. Walker, kneeling before him, his hands gripping Ryan's hips and holding him still.

The silence lengthened, but he couldn't speak. At last, Walker picked up his clothes and started shrugging them on.

"Good night, my lord."

Ryan stood motionless until Walker's footsteps could no longer be heard. The sun had gone down and he could barely see the ground. It would be foolish to go swimming now.

Ryan rolled his shoulders and started taking off his clothes.

 

* * *

 

The sun had already reached its highest point when Jon Walker clamped a hand on Brendon's shoulder and declared: "We are going to the pub."

Walker tended to speak with a determined air, and never more so when talking about beer. Brendon had learned that beer was a serious business. Still, he felt he should at least make an effort to resist since Alex had expressed a longing for more translations of Virgil and Brendon was already having trouble finding inappropriate ones. (Why agricultural treatises were bad for morals, or at least the continued employment prospects of your tutor was a conversation Brendon never wanted to have again.)

Jon Walker, however, did not seem inclined to consider this a satisfactory excuse for deferring ale-related adventures. For a man so effortlessly devious he was able to produce a most convincing expression of woe and really, Brendon should not have been susceptible to it after all this time. He could even see the twinkle in Walker's eyes even as his mouth was occupied with pouting.

Sighing, Brendon gave in, and then laughed when Walker cheered.

The Cow and Bell was the usual destination of Jon Walker's drinking adventures. Brendon had grown accustomed to being dragged there to taste a new ale that had just come in, or the latest batch of exciting pies. He had yet to develop a head for the ales, but Walker did not let this deter him. And although Brendon had woken many a morning with a skull-piercing headache, swearing to never drink again, it never seemed to last.

Walker said he was proud to be a bad influence. To be fair, he usually said this when Lord Ross was in the vicinity, which resulted in a plethora of harrumphing noises and Lord Ross flouncing off in an effervescence of fluttering scarves. Brendon found it best not to inquire.

The ale of today was a reddish porter, which Brendon was sipping slowly but with increasing enjoyment. He always started thinking that he did not like the taste of beer, but after a while it became the most delicious thing in the world. Or possibly Brendon just liked saying that, because it made Jon Walker laugh.

After three pints (or perhaps four, Brendon had stopped counting), when the sun was starting to set and Brendon had began to squint up and look for amusing shapes in the clouds, Walker set his beer down with a decisive thwack. It spilled a little, and Brendon's attention was caught by the tiny swirl of ale running down the wooden table. There were little cracks for it to flow into, but some of it ran down to the ground. Brendon felt his face grow sad.

Walker coughed, and placed his hands on the table. He looked out into the road that went past the inn, as if distracted, but there was a curiously meaningful tone in his voice.

"I have this friend, see. He used to work at the docks in Plymouth and we'd meet up when I had to go there to pick up Sir Spencer's wine. He's a sailor now, but before I knew him, he worked at a farm in Yorkshire. Near Ilkley, you know? I'm guessing that's not far from where you used to live."

Brendon paused around a mouthful of ale, then tried to swallow hastily. Walker was looking down at the table and gave no sign of noticing.

"He's a good man, and a good friend. But he got into some trouble up there. Caught dallying with the owner's son and turns out they're not so keen on that in Yorkshire. He got the beating of his life and was left half-dead on the neighbour's fields. Luckily, I'd just been to Edinburgh with Sir Spencer's business, and me and Mike came across him. We took him with us, sacrificed a bottle of Lord Ross's whiskey to patch him up. Never seen a man lose so much blood and still live."

The ale had lost its taste, but Brendon kept drinking in the hope that it would get rid of the sickness creeping up his throat. He kept one hand around his glass to keep it from shaking, and another in his lap, curling and uncurling in a tight fist. Walker was still not looking at him, a light smile frozen on his face.

"But he was fine, in the end. We got him to see a doctor in the next county over, and passed him off as another servant of Sir Spencer's who'd been caught in a drunken fight. And he's fine now, you know." Jon Walker finally turned his gaze on Brendon, his face kind. "He survived."

The shaky breath he drew was painfully loud, and Brendon had to take a few gulps of air before he could speak. "I'm glad."

Walker nodded. "He's out somewhere in the South Seas now. He's got a good ship with a good captain, and his friends who take care of him."

Blinking, Brendon took another sip of his drink. It was good, and he had not known what had happened, whether Tom had lived, and it was good to know. It was good, even, that Jon Walker knew, and could tell him, and did not judge him. Even if neither of them would ever say a word.

"The next round's on me, I think?" he said, standing up. He stumbled a little and had to grab hold of the table, but managed to right himself in the end.

Walker smiled his usual smile of uncomplicated happiness. "I think you're right. Another one of these, yeah?"

Four pints later, the sky was dark and Brendon had begun to droop on his chair. He was only vaguely aware of being bundled onto his horse and riding back to Cadwallan with Walker holding the reins. The constant litany of "No, stay awake, you're going to fall off, no, _Brendon_" was, however, enough to keep him awake. Also, Walker kept poking him in the side.

By the time they had arrived at the manor Brendon's brain had lost a little of its fog. He dismounted, rather than fell, for one. While Walker handed their horses over to the stable boy, Brendon was able to discover that he could move his limbs with some confidence that they would go where he had planned. This turned to be a most fortunate thing since, lounging elegantly against the front doors of Cadwallan House, were Sir Spencer and Lord Ross in their finest eveningwear.

Brendon had to squint to see it in the dark, but he was fairly certain that there was kohl around Lord Ross's eyes, and the flush on Sir Spencer's cheeks did not seem to be entirely natural either. A velvet cape had been thrown carelessly on the stone lion that some Smith ancestor had deemed a necessary addition to the entrance, and the awkward stillness of the two young men, in addition to their rumpled clothing, seemed to indicate that someone might have attempted to climb said lion a few moments earlier.

Jon Walker gave them his most delightedly filthy grin.

"Looks like you gentlemen have had an exciting evening. I hope you enjoyed the ride?"

A choked up laugh came from the direction of Sir Spencer. Lord Ross gave him a furious look, which only resulted in another laugh. Lord Ross had the most wonderful furious looks, Brendon thought, and giggled a little.

"You've gotten the governess drunk, Walker?"

There was something wrong with that sentence. Brendon frowned at Lord Ross. "I'm not a governess."

A drunken hand came to pat at his cheek. "No, you're not." Walker's voice was low and warm against his face.

Lord Ross twisted his face in a strange way. Brendon tried squinting, but it did not become any clearer. He rubbed his cheek against Walker's shoulder, in case that would help. It felt delicious warm and fuzzy. Brendon hummed with contentment at it.

"Are there no limits to your debauchery?" Something about Lord Ross's tone suggested a scandalised maiden aunt and Brendon promised himself that he would giggle about it later, when he was not quite so exhausted. Giggling required a lot of energy.

"No, my lord. I only follow your lead." Walker shrugged, his voice strangely rough and low. It made Brendon want to shiver, and felt very confusing.

"But I'm not a governess."

He felt, rather than heard, Walker's chuckle. "No, Brendon, you're not a governess. You're a scholar and a gentleman."

Lord Ross blanched, and made a noise. Turning on his heel, he stormed off, his movements stiff. Brendon couldn't see how what Walker had said was worse than what he'd said before. But he had to make his point.

"I am. Yes. A scholar. And … a gentleman."

Sir Spencer frowned at him, then gave an exasperated sigh.

"Jonathan."

"Yes, sir?" That was Walker's "I am pretending to be dumb but actually, I am laughing at you" voice. One day Brendon wanted to have one of those. It would be ever so useful.

Sir Spencer did not seem to share Brendon's admiration for it, since he sighed again. "Be careful."

"I'm always careful, Spencer. You know that."

"It's just, he's…"

"I know."

Sir Spencer did not seem convinced. He had a very good face for looking unconvinced, Brendon decided. All stern and forbidding.

Jon Walker, on the other hand, had a face made for lazy grins. Brendon wanted to poke at the side of his mouth where it twisted.

"I know what I'm doing."

"I hope that you do."

Sir Spencer sighed once more, then rubbed his temples.

"You've been at the Cow and Bell?"

"Yep. They'd brought in more of that Cornish ale, and I figured Mr Boyd should have a taste."

"Just a taste?"

"Possibly more than one, sir. For the sake of thoroughness, you understand."

"You are a scoundrel, Walker. Surely you can tell he's not used to drinking."

"All the more reason to make sure that he gets used to it. Wouldn't do for a man of his stature to be a lightweight."

Sir Spencer raised an eyebrow. Walker grinned.

"Besides, I hear that you've been teaching him to appreciate fine wines yourself. Between the two of us, he'll have a fine education."

Sir Spencer raised an eyebrow, then shook his head, laughing. He patted Walker on the shoulder. "If you say so."

A short silence followed, during which they all swayed a little on their feet. Brendon thought about commenting on it, but he was distracted by thoughts of bending knees.

"Well, then," said Sir Spencer at least. He shuffled a little on his feet, no doubt attempting to stop the swaying. "We'd better get inside. I suspect Mr Wintner is going to do something unspeakable to our breakfasts if we stay here any longer."

This was sound advice. Mr Wintner, the butler, had strong views on young gentlemen who made noise all night. Brendon, who had strong views on the topic himself, had often thought of sharing some thoughts with Mr Wintner, but he feared that being a young man himself he would be disqualified from speaking.

They stepped into the hall, making all effort to move quietly and consequently bumping into two chairs and one side table. The stairs proved to be easier, as there was a helpful wall on one side and a helpful Jon Walker on the other.

"You're a good man, Jon Walker." Brendon had been thinking this all night but for some reason, this seemed the right moment to voice the thought.

A muffled snort came from beside him. "I'm glad you think so, Brendon Boyd."

When they arrived to the second floor, Sir Spencer made a light coughing noise behind them. "Do you need a hand getting him inside?"

Walker turned and gave Sir Spencer a long look. His earlier grin returned.

"No, I think I shall be fine. Mr Boyd, as you know, is not a large man. I'm sure I shall have no trouble wrestling him out of his clothes."

There was something wrong with that sentence, but Brendon could not quite understand what that was. Sir Spencer did not appear to like it either, as his mouth turned into a scowl reminiscent of Lord Ross. "I see. Well, Good night, Mr Walker, Mr Boyd."

"Good night, Sir Spencer."

After the other man's steps could no longer be heard, Jon Walker turned back on Brendon. "Interesting. You play a deeper game than your youthful looks would allow, my friend."

There was nothing Brendon could say to that. Vomiting, by contrast, seemed more and more tempting by the minute. Excusing himself, he made a hasty retreat to his room and vowed to never drink again.

 

* * *

 

Walker's head was bent close as Spencer spoke, his face a picture of relaxed attentiveness. The dinner table had been emptied of food before Walker had stepped in, but there were still glasses aplenty and Spencer had called for another bottle of burgundy when they sat down to chat. Walker, still wearing the shirt and breeches that constituted his daily suite of clothes, seemed completely unaware of how out of place he looked, but no one else seemed to mind, or even notice. Spencer was in the habit of loosening his neckcloth after dinner, which inadvertently mirrored the open collar of Walker's shirt and almost made it respectable. Ryan did not like it.

The only person who paid any attention to Walker's arrival was the governess - Ryan had grimaced at the inappropriately gleeful smile this had provoked, and thought about making pointed comments about the lack of moderation in people of lower stations in life. But then Greta had inquired after his thoughts on purple taffeta, and as Ryan had strong views on the topic, he had been distracted. By the end of that conversation, Walker was sitting next to Spencer at the table, drinking their finest wines and smirking while Boyd had gone back to staring morosely at his feet. What an odd creature was the governess, Ryan thought. Half shy, half forward, occasionally emboldened by friendly attention but more often quiet and strangely stiff.

Just then the young man looked up and, catching Ryan staring at him, gave a nervous yet bright smile. Ryan scowled without thinking about it. That was another thing. For all his awkwardness and strangeness, Boyd had a tendency to smile at everybody. Ryan had suggested that this was a sign of a sickness in the brain, and that he should be dismissed immediately before he could do anything even more strange, but Spencer had refused to take him seriously. There had even been some uncharitable thoughts on his own artistic eccentricities, as if those could be compared to the unnatural habits of someone who wore mud-brown by choice.

He said as much to Spencer, after Jon Walker had finally taken his twinkling self away and the children and their governess had retired to bed.

"He is strange. I do not like him."

Spencer did not even look up from pouring the wine. "Yes, you've said."

"What? No, I meant…the governess. Boyd. He is strange."

That made Spencer pause, and for a moment Ryan feared for the purity of the tablecloth.

"Can mine ears deceive me? Ryan Ross taking a personal interest in someone other than Jon Walker? How very forward of you. He is a governess, after all."

That, Ryan felt, deserved his most petulant sigh. "I am not taking a personal interest, I said I don't like him!"

"Yes. And I know what that means when you say it about Jon."

 

This was not a conversation Ryan wanted to have. Something about the assurance with which Spencer had said it made him uncomfortable.

"You shouldn't call him Jon. It's unseemly."

Raising an eyebrow, Spencer handed him a glass of port. "And I have explained to you that since I have known Jon Walker since we were children, I do not find it unseemly and will continue to do so despite your opposition."

Ryan sighed, and began to fiddle with the stem. "It implies an inappropriate intimacy between you. You should be more careful. Reputations have been ruined with less."

"The only person who sees anything improper there is you, and you are hardly an impartial observer."

"The governess saw it! He was staring at you for a long while. No doubt he is scandalised by your lack of virtue, or something."

A curious look flitted across his friend's face. Ryan was not skilled in decoding the emotions of others, but Spencer's expressions were usually intelligible for him, and that suggested a strange mix of smugness and delight.

"Spencer. You are not harbouring a secret passion for the governess, are you?"

The haughty tilt of the chin was a beat too late to be convincing, which is why Ryan chose not to listen when Spencer's mouth started making noises along the lines of _no, of course not, how silly of you_. Why listen when poking was so much more satisfying? And Ryan knew exactly where Spencer was ticklish.

"You want to be the hero in a ladies' novel, don't you. Rescue him from a world of drudgery and hardship, and woo him gently until one day, with a shy yet bright smile, he will grant you his flower. _Ooh, Sir Spencer_, he'll say. _Please be gentle with me. My flower is only_…"

At this point the stranglehold which Spencer had caught him in began to make speech difficult.

"Please stop talking about Mr Boyd's flower. You are making me want to vomit and I have had enough wine this evening to be able to ruin your shoes and hat as well as every single one of your scarves."

"I am not wearing a hat," wheezed Ryan.

"All the more reason to be careful, then. Now, if I let go, will I have your word that no mention of anybody's flower will happen ever again?"

Ryan nodded, and fell weakly against the chair as Spencer removed his arms. His throat was sore from gasping and Ryan felt a sudden need to fill it with more wine.

Lifting his glass, he took a few sips but did not put it down. Spencer would be less likely to attack him again if there was risk of spillage - even he did not wish to face the housekeeper after ruining the tablecloth again.

"Since you are so keen to defend his honour, I take it you have not yet deflowered him?"

Spencer narrowed his eyes, but made no violent moves, merely lifted his own glass for a sip.

"I have not deflowered Mr Boyd, nor do I have any plans to do so. I would also discourage you from attempting to either. There is enough drama in this household as it is, and Greta would have your head."

Ryan scoffed. "As if I would. Not that I am afraid of Miss Greta. But he is not to my taste and in any case, I would not lower myself to dally with the help."

Spencer's silence on this matter was most eloquent. Ryan continued hastily.

"And besides, I doubt he would have the first notion of what was intended, either…"

"Mr Boyd is an admirer of Lord Way." Spencer's tone was light and gleeful. "I daresay he would have some idea."

Ryan frowned. "That does not necessarily mean anything. There are ladies who read Way's poetry and consider it an exquisitely sensitive portrait of masculine friendship without seeing anything more."

The knowing, smug look which rose on Spencer's face was most aggravating. "But Mr Boyd does. I have spoken to him on the matter, with suitable obfuscation, of course, but he is not unfamiliar with the idea. Nor opposed to it, I should think."

There was something deeply disturbing in that sentence, but Ryan found that he did not care to think about it too much in case he discovered what that was. "How do you know this? Did you ply him with wine and poetry until he confessed his unnatural passions?"

A smirk hovered around Spencer's lips, but he said nothing, merely sipped his wine. Then, "I hear you've taken to midnight swimming lately. Is the water warm these days? Jon speaks highly of it."

Ryan harrumphed into his wine. And when that did not get rid of Spencer's entirely too self-satisfied smile, he was forced to resort to poking again.

The wine and the tablecloth, regrettably, had to be sacrificed to the cause.


	2. Part Two

Ryan knocked on the door. It sounded incongruously loud in the empty hallway, and he was half afraid some maid would walk up to see what the noise was. The urge to run away surged again, but Ryan squashed it. It was time for this to end.

"Come in," rang Jon Walker's voice, as pleasantly affable and annoying as ever. Ryan gritted his teeth, and opened the door.

Walker was sitting by his desk, but he rose to his feet when Ryan walked in. "Lord Ross. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Ryan wet his lips and resisted the instinctive scowl that wanted to form at the sight of Walker's smiling face.

"I have come to ask…I wondered if you would care to join me for a drink, Mr Walker."

He had thought of a number of openings, all too horribly awkward and embarrassing to even consider. This, he had decided in the end, was suitably vague but also suggestive of an alternative interpretation. Judging from the way Walker's mouth fell open, Ryan assumed the correct meaning had been decoded.

"A drink."

Ryan frowned a little. Surely, this was not a difficult concept to comprehend.

"Yes. A drink. As it were," Ryan added, just in case the secondary meaning had not been clear. But while the look on Walker's face began to suggest many things, confusion was not one of them.

"And then what?" Walker's tone was careful, as if he anticipated an unpleasant outcome but was still prepared to consider the possibility of being mistaken.

This was not going well. Ryan drew an impatient breath. "What do you mean?"

"So we have a drink and a fuck, and the next day you will walk out of my bed and not so much as look at me in the eye. I have seen how you treat the people who've let themselves to be seduced. The noble ladies as well as their manservants. That's not good enough for me."

Tilting his head, Ryan allowed his mouth to form a mocking curve. "Have you been watching me, Jon Walker? Spying on me, perhaps, whilst I was engaged with somebody else? Did you like that?"

Walker's eyes flickered briefly down, but his gaze was steady when it came back to Ryan.

"Yes, my lord, I have been watching you. You made sure I would."

"Insolent."

This time it was a challenge rather than an accusation. But even though he smiled, Walker refused to take the bait.

"Perhaps. But I am still what you want."

The sheer…(_insolence_, Ryan's brain gleefully reminded him) of that turned Ryan breathless for a moment. Like he would, with that, with such a man who didn't appreciate the prize being offered him. Walker looked at him with sober yet hopeful eyes, as if he expected Ryan to respond in kind, make some kind of a declaration.

Ryan sneered, the full force of his humiliation and anger almost choking him.

"I don't think…"

But with one smooth step Walker had pressed close, pinned him against the wall with his body and his hands cupped around Ryan's face. Ryan shut his eyes against the warm mouth that kissed him open, that kept him open as Walker's fingers stroked his face and his chest heaved against Ryan's. His blood was humming in his ears and he had to struggle not to push closer, to push down the noises threatening to spill out of his mouth.

Then Walker pulled back, just enough to rub his cheek against Ryan's. The scratch of the beard made Ryan's fingers twitch where they were clutching Walker's arms. Then he remembered where he was and started to pull away, but Walker moved first. His hands slid down to Ryan's chest, lingered there for a moment before he stepped back.

"That's what I'm offering. This is me. Come and find me when you're ready to want that."

Stumbling, Ryan found himself pushed out of the room, the door closed on his face. For a moment he stood there, stunned.

It was bad enough to be refused, but for such a reason, on such disgraceful terms. Ryan blinked furiously as he stormed down the hallway, and plotted for revenge. Something had to be done to put this man to his place.

 

* * *

 

"Mr Boyd! Just the man I was hoping to see!"

There was something sly and teasing in Sir Spencer's voice. Brendon paused in mid step, and turned to face his employer with a smile that would bear being the butt of a private joke.

"Sir Spencer?"

"I had planned to ride up to the ruins of Cadminster Abbey this afternoon, but Lord Ross has taken to his bed with a headache and left me without a companion. Would you care to join me, Mr Boyd? It's five miles past Cadmoor towards Tiverton - we wouldn't be back before dinner but the cook has prepared a basket. And the ruins are worth seeing."

After the unfortunate incident at the library, Brendon had avoided situations where he would have to be private with Sir Spencer. This, however, seemed like an invitation he could not refuse - pleading his duties would not work with his employer who could just give him a holiday, and any form of illness would be unconvincing considering the bounce in Brendon's step when Sir Spencer had found him. Sir Spencer, of course, would be aware of all this. Again.

Somehow this, coupled with that teasing tone, made Brendon want to accept. It was a dare of sorts, a challenge to see if he would agree to Sir Spencer's terms and allow himself to be placed in an impossible position. Brendon was not happy about how he had been discombobulated in their previous encounter; he did not want Sir Spencer to overwhelm him so easily again. Better to change the rules of engagement than accept defeat.

"I'd be delighted, Sir Spencer. Very kind of you to think of me."

A secretive smile appeared for a moment, but Brendon returned it with his most irrepressible grin. There would be no amusement at his expense if he could help it. They stayed like this for a while, and then Sir Spencer coughed lightly and took a step back. Brendon had not noticed they were standing so close.

"Marvellous! I shall see you at the stables in twenty minutes then?"

"Yes, sir. I shall be prompt."

A light frown emerged at that, but Brendon merely smiled again, and walked up to his room to change.

Fifteen minutes into the ride, Brendon came to realise what a bad idea this had been. The sun was still high enough to be sweltering and Brendon was sweating through his threadbare breeches, uncomfortable in his borrowed boots, and itchy. Sir Spencer had chosen to accommodate the weather by wearing the thinnest possible linen shirt, which he had left open at the collar and rolled up the sleeves. There was a light sheen of sweat on his neck, and Brendon could all but see his hair curling under the sun. His forearms were unabashedly bare, displaying the suppleness of his muscles as well as his firm grip on the reins. There might have even been freckles.

Sir Spencer also kept turning to him and pointing out interesting things, despite the unseemliness of providing such entertainment for a man in his service and the fact Jon Walker had already given Brendon the tour. Brendon kept nodding but his grin was getting faint under all that sun and Sir Spencer's distracting freckles.

Luckily, after a while their trail took them through a forest where blissful shades among the tall tress made Brendon wilt with relief. Sir Spencer appeared to enjoy the cooler air as well; at least, he paused in his commentary on fascinating landmarks like trees and rocks.

"Did you enjoy working for Lady Palmer?"

Sir Spencer apparently remained full of inappropriate questions. Brendon scowled inwardly, then composed his face into a bland smile.

"Lady Palmer is a kind woman and a generous employer."

"Her children are quite young, I understand?"

"Yes, five and eight."

"Why did you leave, then? They are surely young enough to still be in need of a tutor. Considering your glowing references, there cannot have been any disagreement with Lady Palmer."

Brendon narrowed his eyes. He was fairly certain this had been covered in his references.

"Lady Palmer decided to the more sociable environment of a boarding school would be more beneficial for her children."

"Surely London is not lacking in social opportunities?"

"Lady Palmer is a widow with a small acquaintance. I believe she wanted her children to benefit from a more active social circle."

"I see. That must have limited your social opportunities as well."

Brendon refrained from gritting his teeth.

"I was not there to acquire friends, Sir Spencer, I was there to teach. Lady Palmer's circle was of no concern to me."

There might have been a small amount of annoyance reflected in Brendon's voice, but Sir Spencer's smile grew only more pleased with itself.

"Where did you teach before that post?"

Brendon tried to remember which version of his references he had given to Sir Spencer - Mr Flowers of Nottinghamshire would undoubtedly not be there, but there were a few ways he could have covered the absence. Best to go with the Ballato School; Miss Asher would cover for him if necessary. Probably.

"I was engaged as a music teacher at the Ballato School for Young Ladies in Lancashire."

"Ballato? Is there any connection with the artist?

"Lady Lindsey Ballato is the founder of the school. She felt there was a lack of educational opportunities for young ladies who were interested in the arts, and donated one of her houses for the purpose."

"Does she run the school herself?"

"Miss Victoria Asher is the head of the school. She is an old friend of Lady Ballato's and a very capable headmistress."

"I see. And how did you end up there?"

"My old mentor was employed there - still is, in fact. He was able to find me a job teaching the pianoforte."

"Your old mentor?"

"Yes. Mr Patrick Stump. He had been my music teacher when I was a boy and has been a kind friend ever since."

"Why did you choose to go into teaching?"

Brendon gave Sir Spencer an incredulous look. It might have even bordered on the sarcastic.

"I was poor but educated. This was the best way for me to support myself."

"Had you no family connections that could help you to another career?"

"My parents are dead and I have no living family. And I enjoy this line of work."

That had come out a little harsh, perhaps, but judging from the slightly guilty look on Sir Spencer's face, not regrettably so. It also gave a reason for the gravity of his own countenance. Brendon knew that his father wished him to be dead and that he had been told to consider him as such, but it was still an unpleasant thing to call himself an orphan.

A rumbling thunder was heard at a distance, and then the rain started to fall, drenching them instantly. For a brief moment, Brendon imagined it a punishment from heaven, falling on him for telling a lie, but then Sir Spencer lifted his head and grinned at the sky. Brendon swallowed and thought that this could be no punishment.

"There's an empty cottage half a mile back. We can wait out the storm there!" Sir Spencer shouted over the rain, and in a flash was turning around and riding back the way they had come. With some difficulty Brendon managed to turn his horse and race after him (understandably, Walburga was not keen on running on muddy ground).

The rain grew heavier as he rode and the wind, which had wafted lazily around his legs just a few moments ago, was rising steadily. It was hard to see over the water in his eyes and the hair slapping wetly against his face. Brendon hung on to his horse and hoped that Walburga knew where she was going.

Apparently she did, since a small building swam into view soon enough. Brendon patted the mare and promised her all the best treats he could find. The cook liked him, and especially liked it when he took care of his things.

A dark figure was already moving under the wooden shelter attached to the cottage, tying his horse with quick and competent movements. As Brendon came closer, Sir Spencer walked up to him.

"Need a hand?"

The incongruity of Sir Spencer Smith offering to help him down his horse made Brendon stop and give him his most disbelieving stare. He was about to point that he was not a lady and could dismount by himself, but at that point Walburga decided that she had had enough of this standing around in the rain when there was a perfectly good awning right there. Brendon managed to hang on to the saddle but could not restrain the loud and undignified squeak that erupted at the sudden movement. He did not need to look at Sir Spencer to know that there would be smirking behind him.

Unfortunately, all of this meant that when Brendon did descend from his horse, his balance was not its best. There was mud up to his ankles and Brendon had to hang on to the reins to keep from slipping under Walburga's belly. No doubt this was hilarious to the onlooker, and Brendon heard a barely muffled laugh as Sir Spencer grabbed his shoulders and kept him upright. The warmth of his hands, after the hard lashings of cold rain, did not bear thinking about.

"Why don't I take care of her while you go and start a fire?"

Brendon wanted to protest - taking care of his own horse was a maxim he had learned and valued - but Sir Spencer, once again, gave him little choice. Brendon nodded and extricated himself from his employer's arms, and ran to the door.

The cottage was small, but clean and well maintained. There was a table in the corner and a few wooden chairs, and a fireplace with a stack of dry wood beside it. Brendon dropped to his knees before it and tried to remember how to light a fire. It had been a few years, but this was hopefully not a skill one would forget.

By the time Sir Spencer came in, Brendon was leaning into the fireplace on hands and knees and trying to gently blow some life into the tiny flames he had managed to create. Sir Spencer made no comment, but a slight squeak came from the door. It was probably the wet boots, Brendon decided, and went back to poking at the fire with a stick.

"You've got the fire going? Good. We're going to need to get out of these wet clothes."

Brendon paused in mid-poke. Sir Spencer's voice had been muffled, as he had spoken whilst taking off his shirt, which surely…Brendon turned around to find a discarded wet shirt draped over one of the chairs, and no sign of Sir Spencer. A noise, as if the slamming of a door, come from the other room.

Brendon closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that he was not about to become naked in front of his employer. Who would also be naked. He had read a canto like this in _David and Jonathan_, and Brendon remembered how that had ended. Not that there was anything inappropriate about manly embraces, but still.

"Your modesty is very impressive, Mr Boyd, but I can assure you there is no need for it here. You are not, despite what Lord Ross says, a governess and it will not ruin your reputation if you undress in company. It will, however, ruin your health if you keep those wet clothes on."

Despite the sarcastic drawl of Sir Spencer's voice, there was also a hint of impatience. He was holding a pile of blankets in front of his shirtless chest and as Brendon sat there, staring wide-eyed and panicking, he placed the blankets on the table and began to undress. Brendon hastily looked away and stood up, starting on his own soaked shirt. His fingers were clumsy (from the cold, he told himself) and the cloth seemed to have attached itself to his shivering skin. There were scraping noises behind him, and soon Sir Spencer was there, setting the chairs before the fireplace and arranging his clothes on top of them. He was close enough for Brendon to feel the heat of his body (the heat of his naked body, Brendon shrieked inwardly), which did not make Brendon's fingers any more coordinated.

"Will you manage? Wet clothes can be the devil."

Sir Spencer's voice showed concern, but the very idea of being assisted in undressing by his capable hands made Brendon want to faint. Then again, all of this would be so much better if he was unconscious. Nevertheless, he managed to shake his head and pull at the buttons until they cooperated, and draped his shirt hurriedly over the nearest chair. The breeches were easier, old enough that only a slight tug was needed. His boots, on the other hand, had evidently grown to love the squelchy feel of Brendon's feet since they refused to be separated from them. Brendon spared a regretful thought to why he hadn't left his clothes on until after he'd got rid of the boots.

"Sit down, I'll help you pull."

And thus, Brendon's thoughts that this could not get more embarrassing were sadly squashed. But it would be more so to put up a fight, so he allowed himself to be pushed to one of the chairs and covered his hips with his breeches as Sir Spencer kneeled before him. Brendon did not want to look, but his eyes kept darting that way, brief glances of strong hands on his legs, circling his calves. Sir Spencer biting his lip as he pulled on the boots, the movement of muscles on his pale chest.

It must have taken only a few moments, yet every brush of finger against his skin felt like it lingered. Finally, Sir Spencer let the boots fall with a clang and set them next to the fire. Brendon remained motionless for a while longer, trying to gain control of his breathing. The fire was growing warm.

Sir Spencer arranged the blankets into a comfortable pile around the fireplace, and gestured for Brendon to join him. One blanket was draped over his shoulder, Roman style, and Brendon was reminded for a moment of the boyhood games he had played with his brothers. Sir Spencer seemed preoccupied with similar thoughts, as he said with a wistful tone: "We used to do this as children, play Greeks and Romans. Lord Ross always wanted to be Socrates, but I preferred Alexander."

Trying to arrange his own blanket to cover as much of him as possible, Brendon nodded. "Clearly it is still a useful skill. Toga-wrangling is too often a lost art these days."

The silence that followed made Brendon lift his gaze from a recalcitrant knot to find Sir Spencer staring at him, his whole face expressing utmost astonishment. Brendon realised that this must have been the first joke he had made in his employer's presence. Possibly the first time any frivolous speech had been volunteered. As Sir Spencer began to smile, a more honestly delighted smile than any Brendon had seen, it occurred to him that his previous behaviour might have been seen as cold and aloof. There were reasons, good reasons, why he did not want to develop close relations with his employer, but Sir Spencer would not be aware of those reason, or of Brendon's precarious position. He would have to do better.

Brendon smiled and gestured towards the food basket next to Sir Spencer. "Can I help?"

Sir Spencer's answering smile turned his cheeks round, and Brendon had a brief moment of oh, before his hands were filled with cheese and pie.

"Mrs Lowett has been trying to fatten up Lord Ross for years now, so there will, in all likelihood, be more food here than we can comfortably consume. Then again, it might be a long night and Mrs Lowett does make some delicious pie."

Brendon nodded. He was holding the third pie to come out of the basket, and he could see at least two more.

"And some nice white burgundy. This will go well with the fish pie."

Something about Sir Spencer's intense focus on the food basket made Brendon wonder if he was nervous - Sir Spencer was known to enjoy his pie, but it was rarely such a riveting topic of conversation. As Brendon himself had little to contribute to a discussion of pinot noir versus chardonnay, he started to feel concern that Sir Spencer might feel compelled to narrate the joys of every single edible item in the basket. And there were many of them.

Perhaps a change in topic would be opportune.

"How fortunate that this place should be empty. Who resides here usually?"

Sir Spencer had been in the process of fondling a round circle of bread (to test its firmness, presumably), a frown on his face, but Brendon's question turned his face contemplative.

"It has been empty for a year now - Walker comes by every month and makes sure it's in good condition. We are keeping it in reserve for the son of one of my tenants, Matthew Brown, who is working at a farm near Exeter at the moment. He's saving to get married, you see, but he and his young woman are hoping to be able to marry this summer, so it should not be empty much longer."

"That's…it is very kind of you to keep it for him."

Sir Spencer shrugged. "I know him and I trust he will do well with the land and the cottage. I would rather rent to someone whom I know won't bring trouble."

"Nevertheless. That is very generous of you."

Sir Spencer rolled his eyes and pulled the cork off the wine.

"I am a very generous employer, Mr Boyd, as I'm sure you'd agree. Some wine?"

He was already pouring into two glasses, so Brendon merely smiled and accepted a glass. "Of course, sir."

The first glass made Brendon sleepy and warm. Even though their ride had not been long, the fatigue of travelling under strong sunlight and the subsequent exhilaration of rain and thunder had left him exhausted, and Brendon began to feel a pleasant numbness in his limbs. The brightness of the fire and the crackling noises made him want to close his eyes and lie down. _But that would not do in this company_, Brendon told himself sternly, and shook his head to wake himself up. Another slice of pie might help.

Sir Spencer was telling him about the history of the village, how Cadmoor had once been a thriving market town attached to the church of Cadminster, and how the desolation of the monasteries in 1533 had almost ruined the town. Cadwallan had been part of the abbot's demesne at that time and had itself lain empty, a part of the Crown, until Charles II had given it to Sir Spencer's ancestors in gratitude for their loyalty during the Commonwealth. Brendon tried to pay attention, for this was both interesting and potentially useful, but the melodious voice of his host made it easy to be distracted by his own thoughts, the comfortable feel of the blankets under and around him, and the sweetness of the wine on his tongue. Brendon smiled into his glass, suddenly unable to hide his happiness at this brief moment of joy. There were few enough moments like this.

The second glass made him stretch his limbs and curl on the blankets in a lazy sprawl. Brendon was warm, not unpleasantly so, but enough that his arms and legs needed to be uncovered. There was a pause in Sir Spencer's narration as Brendon arranged himself more comfortably, but when he raised his head to look, Sir Spencer only smiled and continued his tale.

The pies were delicious, as Sir Spencer had promised, and the cheese made Brendon want to moan aloud at the taste of it. He refrained, of course, but some of his enjoyment must have shown on his face, since Sir Spencer grinned and commented on his appetite.

When the wine had finished and Brendon had laughed at the mournful look on Sir Spencer's face when he tried to shake the last drops into his glass, they stacked all the remains in the basket and lay down on the blankets, stretching out before the fire. Brendon rested his hands on his belly and thought that he had not been so full or so happy in years. Sir Spencer's voice, when breaking his reverie, was uncharacteristically quiet, almost hesitant.

"I would like it if you were to call me by my Christian name. Sir Spencer sounds so very cumbersome, especially this time of the night."

For a moment, Brendon was quiet. _He speaks from a generous impulse, _he told himself._ Probably._

"It is very kind of you to ask, Sir Spencer. But I must remember my position. You must know that it would ruin my reputation if it was known that I did not address my betters with appropriate respect - my station does not allow for such familiarity."

Sir Spencer stared, stunned by the sharpness of Brendon's voice or the stringent tone of the last few words. A flush rose on his cheeks, and Brendon was suddenly delighted to have embarrassed him. The wine was clearly a bad influence, but he decided, after a moment's deliberation, that he did not care.

"Jon Walker calls me by my name and he has come to no harm from it. I dare say you exaggerate."

A hint of a cold sneer emerged from Sir Spencer's voice, even as his face tried to retain an open look. At another time, it would have been intimidating, but this was a battle Brendon could not lose.

"Never in public, and as he is known to be your childhood companion the breach in decorum would not be so great. Furthermore, he will not lose his livelihood should others disapprove. The position of a personal tutor is somewhat more precarious."

Sir Spencer grimaced. "Lord Ross has his reasons for the comments he makes, and I assure you they are not a reflection of his views. He is secretly a radical. There's a room full of decades old revolutionary pamphlets in the attic."

Despite his (well thought out and justified) anger, Brendon was distracted by the image of Lord Ross standing on a barricade shouting 'Vive la revolution!', his tri-coloured scarves fluttering in the wind.

"But I did not mean to press you. If the notion makes you uncomfortable, then I shall not insist. I hope you know that I would not take advantage of my position in such a way."

There was a serious note in Sir Spencer's voice, and his gaze was somehow pressing, as if there was something very important he was trying to convey. Brendon, suddenly embarrassed himself, simply nodded and burrowed deeper under his blanket. There was comfort there, made doubly so by the lateness of the hour and the crackling noises coming from the fireplace. Closing his eyes seemed like a good idea.

"We used to go up there as children. Lord R - Ryan was always keen, it was his favourite game and my mother used to despair over us when we would come down for dinner and spoke only in revolutionary slogans. In French. I imagine that is where Alex gets his ideas. No one could have been a more trying child than Ryan."

The words were soft and low, Sir Spencer's voice blending in with the noises of the house around them and the wind outside. It should not have kept him awake, Brendon thought, should have been just soothing enough to send him to sleep. Yet the words themselves did not fit and that fact, that Sir Spencer would voluntarily share such things about himself and about his friend, was, Brendon guessed, a precious thing. He should have been asleep and not heard them, but since they were there he could not not listen. He could not let the tiny bit of anxiety in Sir Spencer's voice go unheard.

Brendon fell asleep listening to Sir Spencer talk about his first encounter with Lord Way's poetry at age twelve, and how Lord Ross, and Lord Ross's wardrobe, had never been the same.

 

* * *

 

It was the coldness of his feet that woke Brendon. At some point during the night, he had kicked himself free of the blankets - the fire, now dead, had been still burning when he fell asleep. Brendon remembered Sir Spencer's soft face, gleaming in the firelight, and the flow of wine in his veins. He did not want to rise yet.

Still, he opened his eyes and found himself the object of a thoughtful blue gaze. Sir Spencer's face was relaxed from sleep, flushed and lightly rumpled, but there was an alertness which made Brendon wonder if he had been awake for a while, watching him. It felt strange to reconcile the stern and capable Sir Spencer with this young man lounging next to him, his hair flopping down over his face and almost tickling his nose. Brendon crinkled nose in response, then thought of what a ridiculous sight he must make. Last night's dreams were still close enough for a small giggle to escape him.

Then Sir Spencer smiled and Brendon stilled, helpless to move. He blinked, twice, in the sunlight coming through the door and tried to think of something to say. Anything that would let him out of this.

The door.

"Are you two decent yet?"

Jon Walker's voice, cheerful and loud, came through.

What might have been a grumpy look on a less mature man passed over Sir Spencer's face. Brendon watched curiously as he closed his eyes and scrunched them up briefly, looking for all the world like a five-year-old before settling into bland good humour. Brendon could not help but smile at that.

"I'm going to assume from your silence that you are, in fact, decent, and I'm coming in regardless. You have only yourselves to blame if I'm wrong!"

A part of Brendon was horrified by the idea of joking about such things, but he knew Walker would not cause trouble for him on that account and Sir Spencer did not seem disturbed. By contrast, he rolled his eyes and sat up, letting the blankets pool at his waist. Brendon clutched his own blanket and looked desperately for his clothes.

"Walker, must you be so obnoxious first thing in the morning? If you would just wait a moment, we will be right out."

"Lord Ross says it is my principal talent, and who am I to disagree?"

Sir Spencer swallowed a short laugh. "Well, sometimes he is right! Perhaps you should listen to him more."

Jon Walker came to lean on the doorframe. "You know that it is my policy to never listen to what Lord Ross says. It does not agree with my delicate constitution."

Evidently this was one of their private jokes, as Sir Spencer merely snorted and waved his hand at Walker. "Pass me my clothes, if you would be so kind? They're on over there, and I would not wish to scandalise Mr Boyd by rising undressed from my bed."

Walker gave them a considering glance, then collected all their assorted shirts and breeches and dumped them in Sir Spencer's lap.

"Seems to me he's going to have be scandalised when you get yourself dressed in any case. Unless you intend to wriggle into your clothes under the blankets."

"Tempting as that sounds, that won't be necessary. Mr Boyd, being a modest man, will undoubtedly avert his eyes while I dress, and trust that we shall do the same for him."

This, it appeared, was Brendon's cue to hide himself entirely under his blanket, which also had the benefit of muffling most of the laughter that followed his action. It was considerate of Sir Spencer, he decided after a while, to spare him the embarrassment of dressing in public, in daylight. He rather liked the idea of being a modest man.

A hand shook his shoulder. Brendon ignored the temptation to remain under the covers a little longer and stuck his head out. Sir Spencer's fingers came perilously close to his cheek.

"We shall wait outside for you."

Brendon's hands did not shake as he dressed himself in the bare light of morning. His boots squelched a little as he put them on, which was both an annoyance and a distraction, but at least he could walk. Stepping out, he was prepared to face Sir Spencer and Jon Walker with a bright smile, but their attention were already engaged.

"How did you find us so early?"

"Lord Ross sent me out at dawn. He said to inform you of the wonderful news that has befallen your house. Those were his exact words."

Walker's voice implied that he did not quite agree with this assessment.

"Oh yes?"

"Mr Wentz has arrived."

 

* * *

 

Mr Pete Wentz, Brendon discovered, was a distant cousin of Sir Spencer and an old friend of Lord Ross. Mr Wentz was a short man but it took a while for Brendon to notice - it was easy to be distracted by the bright red breeches, the sparkling white coat and the huge grin which Mr Wentz sported on all occasions. There was a lascivious glint in his eye which Brendon could not like, and the loudness, the laughter, the regrettable taste in jokes did not raise him in Brendon's esteem.

Lord Ross had introduced him as the new governess, and Brendon might have been a little miffed by Mr Wentz's uproarious laughter at this.

Sir Spencer had merely rolled his eyes, introduced Brendon correctly and briefly, and then proceeded to escort Mr Wentz back to the breakfast room from whence he had emerged. (Brendon had noted the abundance of crumbs on his breeches.) Walker had given him a half-hearted shrug, and disappeared back to his office or whatever errand required his presence at the other side of the house, leaving Brendon alone in the hallway.

It was not his custom, but that morning Brendon had asked for a bath to be delivered in his room and an extra pot of tea.

Mr Wentz continued to be aggravating over the next few days, giving exaggerated winks at Lord Ross whenever Brendon was near and grinning broadly at inopportune moments. He kept asking Brendon questions which bordered on the inappropriate, and standing too close for comfort or courtesy.

Moreover, his presence seemed to effect a strange transformation over Lord Ross. Before the arrival of their guest, it was not unusual for Lord Ross to come and listen when Brendon and Miss Greta practised their music - he made a disparaging noise every now and then, of course, but Miss Greta seemed to view those as the regrettable misbehaviour of a sweet but badly trained puppy, which is to say that she gave him an exasperated glare or two, but mostly just rolled her eyes. As this also tended to be the reaction of Sir Spencer to Lord Ross's outbursts, Brendon deduced that they were not be taken seriously. There had even been a badly disguised compliment or two regarding Brendon's voice.

However, with Mr Wentz there, all that had turned to gleefully cutting remarks about servants reaching beyond their abilities and not keeping to their station. Greta's subsequent glaring, or even her poking Lord Ross in the ribs in a most unladylike manner, did not result in an amelioration of his habits as Lord Ross merely gave her a haughty scowl and requested that she keep her hands to herself. Sir Spencer had taken to sighing a lot, and dragging Lord Ross and his friend out of whichever room Brendon was in. Brendon supposed he was grateful.

 

* * *

 

"And will you be joining us this evening, Mr Boyd?"

Brendon had not heard Mr Wentz approach, but he immediately put on his blandly polite face. "Mr Wentz?"

A contemptuous snort signalled the presence of Lord Ross.

"Surely you don't intend to take the governess to the ball, Wentz?"

Accustomed as he was to Lord Ross's little jibes, Brendon did not allow his smile to waver. Instead he turned and presented the man with his most cheerful grin, the one that seemed to annoy Lord Ross the most. His efforts were rewarded with a harrumphing noise.

"And why not, my dear Ross? It is not as if Saporta would mind. And poor Mr Boyd cannot have many opportunities to enjoy festivities like these, I'm sure it would be a treat for him. Wouldn't you like that, Mr Boyd?"

The glint in Mr Wentz's eyes suggested that he was about to leer outrageously at Brendon (A sadly frequent occurrence, but Mr Wentz was a habitual leerer of everybody in his vicinity so Brendon did not take it personally.) or possibly cluck him under the chin. As neither option would be desirable, Brendon took a hasty step back and prepared to give a polite but firm refusal.

"It is very kind of you to think of me, Mr Wentz, but I assure you I am not in need of entertainment. I am perfectly content to remain here, and I am sure that…"

"And deprive us all of the pleasure of your company! Unkind, Mr Boyd, unkind! Surely you would not be so cruel as to refuse Lord Ross your conversation in his time of need! Who else will keep up the chat about the current trend in ruffles?"

The sour look on Lord Ross's face would have been hilarious at any other time, had not Brendon been aware that he was once again the butt of the joke. His forced a calm smile on his face.

"I was not aware that Lord Ross was in need of my council on matters of the dress. And I'm afraid that my knowledge of ruffles is very limited."

"A sign of your good taste, I'm sure, Mr Boyd. Pray tell me what is going on, gentlemen?"

Sir Spencer's voice came through the open door of the library, soon followed by the man himself. Brendon lowered his eyes and took a step back.

"Spence! I had the most brilliant idea - would it not be fun if Mr Boyd were to join us at the Saporta Ball tomorrow? You know Gabe has been complaining about the lack of gentlemen in this part of the county, and tiny though he is, your governess would serve to fill out the numbers. And give Ryan a chance to practice his wallflower stance, you know how he gets when he's made to dance. Disturbs his ruffles, don't you know."

The look on Mr Wentz's face indicated that this was clearly the greatest witticism of all time. Sir Spencer rolled his eyes, then turned his gaze on Brendon. Brendon resisted the urge to retreat further, and extended the bland smile to his employer. A light frown rose on Sir Spencer's brow.

"Just because you want to spend the whole evening gossiping about the season's fashions with Ryan is no reason to drag in Mr Boyd to fulfil your social duties. You are welcome to join us, of course," he turned to Brendon, his face unfurrowing into a kinder look, "but I can't promise it will be a very exciting evening. I expect you will enjoy yourself more if you stay at home."

Brendon could not help the real smile that grew on his face. "I'm afraid dancing is not my forte, Sir Spencer. In order to avoid any regrettable accidents, it would be best if I stayed here. I'm sure the ladies will have enough willing partners without me."

Sir Spencer nodded, with the finality of a matter well settled, but did not look away immediately. Brendon felt his grin begin to grow helplessly wider.

It was only the brash laughter of Mr Wentz that made him look away, and reminded him that he had business elsewhere.

 

* * *

 

That should have been the end of the matter, but clearly the fates had conspired against Brendon since the next day he was ambushed by Miss Greta. He had retired to the music room immediately after breakfast - any room with loud noises coming out of it before noon was usually safe from Mr Wentz and Lord Ross - and been distracted by attempting to play three Beethoven sonatas in a row. His mind was still grappling with crescendos when a warm body attached itself to his side.

Brendon barely refrained from falling down with a squeak, and so his smile might have been slightly less warm when it turned to his pupil. Greta's face, however, was a picture of woe, a light pout twisting her lips, her eyes huge with barely held back tears. Fortunately, Brendon had seen this look before, and seen how grown men, even the irascible Lord Ross, crumbled before its power. Consequently, his voice held a somewhat suspicious note. "What can I do for you, Miss Greta?"

Greta's lips trembled. Brendon held on to the thought of Lord Ross's puzzled face after he had agreed to give away his share of the pudding.

"Oh Mr Boyd. It is…I am sorry, it is too much. I cannot ask you." A tiny tear ran down her cheek. Brendon told himself not to crumble. He had not even been asked to share his dessert yet.

"My dear Miss Greta, whatever is the matter?"

She trembled against his arm. It was not as uncomfortable as he had feared, and Brendon found himself resisting the urge to place his arm around her shoulders.

"The Saporta Ball tonight. I am…I find myself in need of a gentleman, Mr Boyd. My cousin and his friends cannot be counted on to serve, and I fear what would happen if I… I know it is much to ask for, but dear Mr Boyd, I am in desperate need of an escort, and only you can help me."

Greta blinked earnestly at him, and Brendon noticed the teardrops gathered on her lashes. A mild humming noise began to rise in his ears.

"Miss Greta, I am…surely you have multitudes of gentlemen eager to serve you! I am but a lowly tutor, I can hardly do you credit."

"But Mr Boyd, you are a _gentleman._ I can _trust _you."

The serious tone of her voice did not fit the carefully tearstained look on her face, but it told Brendon that something important, something unrelated to the sharing of cakes, was involved. He coughed and tried to straighten his shoulders.

"Of course you can trust me, Miss Greta. I would be honoured to be of service."

He half expected her to bounce up with a cheerful grin, but instead she took his hand between hers and gave him a solemn look. "Thank you, Mr Boyd, I am in your debt. And I promise you shall not have any reason to regret your assistance."

What could he do but kiss her hand, and then tease her out of her mood by playing a jaunty tune?

 

* * *

 

Brendon arrived in the hall wearing his finest jacket and breeches and fully anticipating the mockery of Mr Wentz and Lord Ross. The look on Mr Wentz's face suggested that he was not to be disappointed, as soon as Mr Wentz could decide which part of his dress (or his anatomy) was most deserving of attention. Brendon had already braced himself for a number of inappropriate comments, when Miss Greta, resplendent in golden silks, glided down the staircase and straight to his arm. Her smile was dazzling and not a little evil, and the glare she directed at Mr Wentz stopped him in his tracks before he even had time to leer.

"Not a word, Wentz, not a word. Mr Boyd is to be my gallant escort this evening. And if you send so much as one indelicate thought towards him, you will find yourself in a world of trouble."

Anger seemed to bring a particularly becoming flush to Miss Greta's cheeks, and Brendon had a bad feeling that Mr Wentz was about so say so, although probably in considerably less polite words. Perhaps sensing this, Greta stepped directly before Mr Wentz, and stared him down from a closer proximity. Her superior height (compared to Mr Wentz) and determined glare might have intimidated a lesser man (or one equipped with rationed fear), but Mr Wentz's grin did not falter. Then she leaned in to whisper something in his ear.

Whatever that was, the effect was remarkable; Wentz turned pale and his eyes grew wide. "You wouldn't," he choked, taking a step back.

Greta's smile was cool and smug. "Oh, I would. So do not give me a reason."

Only the arrival of Sir Spencer brought an end to the tension and Mr Wentz in particular looked a little relieved. Brendon offered his arm to Miss Greta and decided to enjoy himself.

 

* * *

 

Count Gabriel Saporta was not what Brendon had expected.

Their arrival had necessitated a flurry of greetings and shufflings, and Brendon had waited at the outskirts of the group for his introduction, trying in to blend into the background. Greta, however, did not seem to agree with this plan as she grabbed his arm in a surprisingly strong grip and pulled him to the front to meet their host. Stepping gracefully on Lord Ross's foot (he had began to open his mouth at Brendon's approach), she presented Count Saporta with a smile of enchanting deviousness.

"My lord, allow me to introduce Mr Boyd. He has been my musical companion these last few months and has kindly offered to be my escort tonight. Mr Boyd, Lord Saporta."

Brendon bowed and smiled hopefully. Saporta smirked and bowed in response. It was obvious that he knew who Brendon was.

"I am delighted that you could join us this evening, Mr Boyd. My friends have told me much about you, and I have long hoped to meet you."

It was not entirely clear whether Saporta was intending to mock him or whether that slightly disturbing grin was merely his habitual expression. Brendon suspected a mixture of both, and mumbled his greetings whilst bowing his head. But then another hand joined Miss Greta's on his arm, and Brendon felt Sir Spencer's firm shoulder brush against his.

"Mr Boyd is indeed something of a musical prodigy. You shall have to visit us sometime when he can be persuaded to play - he has a rare talent that should not be missed."

"Indeed?" Saporta's eyebrows rose and his mouth settled into a practised leer that was somehow amusing rather than disturbing. "You know how keen I am to discover new talents, Spencer. You should have brought him over earlier." A theatrical wink followed, and Brendon found himself grinning back without quite knowing back.

Greta snapped her fan against Saporta's arm. "That is precisely why we have not brought him over. Mr Boyd is a _gentleman_."

A trickle of awkwardness began to slide down Brendon's throat, and he endeavoured to resist the manic grin which began to form unbidden on his face. Count Saporta licked his lips in a manner bordering on the inappropriate, and leaned closer to Brendon and Greta. The hands on both his arms grew more steely.

"Oh I see. You were afraid I might have a corrupting influence? Quite right, Miss Salpeter, quite right. I am dreadfully perverted, you know."

Greta raised one blonde eyebrow.

"You are dreadful, I quite agree, but I doubt you are as perverted as you claim to be. Few gentlemen are." Her tone implied elegant disappointment.

Suddenly, Sir Spencer moved between the count and his ward, pushing Brendon gently backwards as he waited for the others to resettle around him. "I believe I hear the musicians. You should make Mr Boyd known to Mrs Lambert, Greta, before finding Lord Ross for the first dance. You know he likes to be well settled before the first steps."

Greta gave her cousin a somewhat mutinous look, but allowed herself to be escorted into the ballroom.

Mrs Lambert was the chaperone of several young ladies attending the Saporta ball, and her approval would be necessary for Brendon's social success. Greta's demeanour underwent a radical change as she explained the situation, and emphasised Brendon's impeccable manners and gentlemanly conduct. Mrs Lambert did not seem terribly impressed by these, but she introduced Brendon to her niece, a Miss Duffy. Brendon took Miss Duffy to the floor, and began an amiable conversation about the weather.

Brendon danced with several young ladies. Miss Adkins played the harp and expressed a deep passion for singing. Miss Winehouse resided usually in London and was in Devon to visit her aunt, Mrs Lambert. Miss Allen was interested in fashion, and spent the whole dance discussing by her pink dress and its exquisitely fashionable lines. Brendon thought about introducing her to Lord Ross.

However, during his fifth dance he realised two things. Sir Spencer had spent the past hour walking around the ballroom, chatting to the chaperones and their young ladies instead of dancing. Heads had often turned to Brendon's direction, but he was accustomed to not paying attention when he was watched and had assumed that this was only curiosity about a newcomer. But as he was about to take the first steps of a minuet with Miss Klass, he overheard a conversation.

"You brought your cousins' tutor with you, Sir Spencer? How very _original _of you."

The woman who had spoken was fanning herself languorously, in a manner which she no doubt thought elegant.

"Yes, it is rather radical of me, isn't it? But you know, he is completely ineligible and has no pretensions of being otherwise, quite harmless really. I understand he is engaged to the daughter of his vicar back in Lancashire, in any case. And Mr Boyd is very much a gentleman. There is no need to worry about _him _behaving inappropriately."

"Oh, I see." The woman gave a very unsubtle look to where Count Saporta and Mr Wentz were laughing uproariously.

"And he is perfectly genteel in every way. You would not expect Miss Salpeter to accept an escort who was not, would you? I promise you, Mrs Swift,_ I _see no reason to be concerned about Mr Boyd."

Sir Spencer's voice was impeccably polite, but Brendon could also detect a certain amount of assertiveness. Mrs Swift, it seemed, had understood this as well, as she sought to be introduced to Brendon during the next break and indicated that she expected him to dance with her daughter.

The second thing Brendon realised was that the young ladies, all very evidently aware of his status and consequent ineligibility, did not seem to like him any less because of it. On the contrary, he noted a conspicuous change in their conversation, from stilted comments about the weather to a relaxed discussion about whether London was a very exciting place, and how the balls there were very different, and whether a dark purple was really a suitable colour for a young lady. It appeared that his lowly position, having removed him from the group of desirable matches, also negated the necessity of proscribed behaviour while in his company. In the cases of Misses Allen and Winehouse, a little too much so, as Brendon had the pleasure of standing up with them after they had enjoyed the refreshments more than was strictly appropriate.

After a final dance with Miss Greta (she had sought him out a few times, when either a surfeit or a lack of attention deemed his attendance desirable), he escorted her back to where their group was gathering.

The conversation dropped when they stepped to the circle. Count Saporta turned to them, and gave a lascivious smirk. There were not as many teeth involved as in Mr Wentz's endeavours, but Brendon found that this was still somehow more unnerving. Something about the eyes, perhaps.

"I see you have been occupied with satisfying the ladies, Mr Boyd."

Brendon thought about rolling his eyes (he could probably get away with it in such lax company), but he noted that Miss Greta, rather than laugh at the comment, had began to straighten her spine and lift her chin in a manner which promised a serious, and potentially unforgivable, altercation. Swiftly, Brendon took a tiny step forward and presented Count Saporta with his most earnest smile.

"I have only done my gentlemanly duty, my lord. And with so many charming young ladies in attendance, it would have been criminal to do otherwise."

He expected to be mocked for it, but Lord Ross's response was still unnervingly scathing.

"And you are always assiduous in fulfilling your duties, are you not, Mr Boyd? Such a valuable trait in a servant."

An awkward silence fell. Brendon noticed that both Count Saporta and Mr Wentz moved a little further from Lord Ross, and that Miss Greta's hand tightened around his arm. But it was Sir Spencer who spoke.

"_Social _duties, I find, are all the more valued because they are not proscribed, but volunteered. Although I am sure that the young ladies do not mind that you tend to fill a decorative rather than practical role in events such as this. Their tailors might regret the loss of business, of course, but their feet will thank you."

Lord Ross opened his mouth, then closed it again. No one could have thought his face lacking in expression at that moment and Brendon found he had to look away. As frustrated as he might feel at Lord Ross's constant commentary, watching him experience what was evidently the shock of betrayal made him uncomfortable.

"Miss Greta," said Count Saporta, turning abruptly away from the scene of drama, "might I tempt you to one final dance? You have denied me the waltz too long, but tonight I am determined to succeed. Shall we?"

Greta's eyebrows suggested her disbelief at this indelicate speech through a series of subtle movements, but she accepted the offered arm without comment. They walked towards the dance floor, leaving the rest of the group to a slightly less awkward silence. Finally, Lord Ross turned on his heel and staggered away, his steps uneven. Mr Wentz shot Sir Spencer an apologetic look, and ran after him.

Turning to Brendon, Sir Spencer offered a stilted smile. "Shall we wait for Miss Greta in the carriage, Mr Boyd? I've no doubt she has a great many things to say to Count Saporta that do not require an audience. And as I expect Lord Ross has stormed into the night by himself, and that Mr Wentz has followed him equally unequipped, you need not fear being further troubled there."

Brendon nodded, and followed Sir Spencer to the carriage. He did not attempt a smile of his own. He suspected it would not be welcome.

* * *

Two hours later, Brendon was standing in the hallway.

This was probably a bad idea. Even aside from all the ways it might be misconstrued by others (Brendon chose to ignore the ways in which this might not be a misconstruction for the moment), a large amount of awkwardness was inevitable. He did not like to put himself in positions where awkwardness was likely, and in this case it would have been entirely possible to avoid the situation altogether. There would be no repercussions, professional or otherwise, if he went back to his room and said nothing. It would be easy.

Brendon knocked on Sir Spencer's door.

For a moment nothing happened. Brendon wondered whether the strange feeling in his chest was disappointment or relief. Then, a quiet rustling could be heard and at last, Sir Spencer opened the door.

He was in his night clothes and his hair was mussed, as if he had already been in bed. Brendon's mouth was suddenly dry.

"Mr Boyd?"

"I…ah, I wondered if I could have a word."

Sir Spencer gave him an incredulous look, and Brendon had began to reconsider what he had just said when he was pulled inside with a swift grab. Perhaps not in the hallway, then.

The sheets had been pulled back on the giant bed that Brendon resolutely refused to look at. Instead, he tried to focus on the slightly grumpy look on Sir Spencer's face, and the way his arms were stretched across his chest.

"I wanted to say…I am grateful for your generosity, Sir Spencer. What you did tonight was very kind, and even though I cannot ever return the favour I want you to know that I am aware of what you risked, for me, and that I appreciate it."

That had sounded more eloquent when he had practised it in his room. Not much, but still. Brendon swallowed and tried to decipher the slightly disgruntled expression on Sir Spencer's face.

"What are you used to that…" Sir Spencer paused, and took a deep breath. "It was nothing. Anyone would have done the same, Mr Boyd. There is no need to thank me."

Biting his lip, Brendon thought about walking away. But at this point, it would be foolish to give up.

"But anyone would not, Sir Spencer. They have not, and they don't. This is what I…you should know that most people are not so kind. So I am grateful for it."

What might have been a frustrated sigh escaped Sir Spencer's mouth.

"Your gratitude is not necessary, Mr Boyd. You deserve better than that."

He was standing close enough that Brendon could see the freckles peeking out from under his nightshirt. Without thinking, he began to move away, but then Sir Spencer was pulling him back, his fingers gripping tightly on Brendon's shoulder. Brendon shivered and tried not to move.

"The dresser behind you, you would have…" Sir Spencer paused. His hand was still on Brendon's shoulder. Slowly, thoughtfully, he repeated the brush of his thumb against Brendon's throat.

Brendon could not suppress the shiver this time either. Miserably, he looked up to see Sir Spencer's eyes on him, filled with sudden understanding.

"I see."

The moment stretched unbearably, then Brendon was being pressed against the dresser, hands pinning his wrists against the solid wood and the weight of a strong body sliding between his legs. Sir Spencer's face was too close and Brendon had to close his eyes.

"Do not tell me that I am imagining this. Tell me that it is not just me."

Then his mouth was on Brendon's throat and it was impossible to breathe, impossible to do anything but shudder.

"Sir Spencer…"

"_Spencer_. Please. This is not about…_please_."

Swallowing again, Brendon managed to nod. "Spencer."

Spencer took his face between his hands and whispered into his mouth. "Yes." And then they were kissing, greed making them both clumsy but Brendon found he did not care.

Brendon's fingers didn't quite work, but they managed to find their way under Spencer's sleeve. The skin was soft there, a slightly padded curve atop the muscles that Brendon had watched often enough to know their shape, but the shiver of exhalation against his cheek was nothing he could have anticipated. Still hidden under the cloth, his fingers made their way from the wrist, padding slowly across the arm, to the inner elbow. The skin above the veins was unbearably soft under his thumb, and Brendon wanted to follow it with his tongue and suck this piece of skin into his mouth.

But before he could follow through with this plan, Spencer's hands had gripped his wrists and he was being pulled away, pulled down and pushed onto the bed. Spencer was kneeling above him and there was a smug grin curving his mouth.

"I have spent a considerable amount of time occupied by thoughts of removing your breeches from your person. I feel it is time my thoughts were realised. Don't you?"

A hand came to rest on Brendon's waist, Spencer's thumb sliding insidiously under his shirt to find bare skin. Brendon twitched on the bed.

"Yes?"

Spencer flicked his thumb. "You don't sound quite sure. I wouldn't want to disrobe you without permission, of course. That would be unseemly."

Something about the movement of that finger made it difficult to follow the conversation. Let alone participate in it.

"Most unseemly. Um."

"Brendon?"

"Yes?"

"Is that a yes?"

The finger paused. Brendon found that he did not like that.

"Yes."

The smile that bloomed on Spencer's face was the stuff of overwrought poetry, and Brendon vowed never to voice any of the similes that had occurred to him in that moment.

"Good."

At that, Spencer lowered himself on top of Brendon, his mouth still smiling as he leaned down for a kiss. An unhurried press of lips, almost chaste, yet Brendon felt his toes begin to curl. Their bodies were so still, but he could feel every exhalation of breath and it was almost too much.

The first touch, a slow slide of knuckles along Brendon's arm, caused a hoarse whimper to escape his mouth. But then there were hands tugging at his clothes and teeth biting into his throat, and Brendon abandoned himself to the sounds that were coming out of him as he was pinned down on the bed in a frantic flurry of movement. There was no time to wonder at the strangeness of being so purposefully undressed by another man, by his employer, as a hot mouth followed where insistent fingers had been and Brendon found himself breathless and shuddering under the evidently knowledgeable hands.

By the time Spencer's tongue slid down the crease of his thigh and broad shoulders pushed his legs apart, the whimpers had turned into low moans and Brendon's fists had been clutching the sheets for a while. The vulnerability of this position made a strange thrill creep up his spine, and Brendon shuddered as he choked out the words.

"I haven't…"

Spencer paused in his ministrations and lifted his head to look at Brendon. His gaze was sober and somehow fierce, but his hands did not cease in their caress. At last, he pressed a soft kiss on Brendon's thigh. "I will be careful with you."

Afterwards, Brendon would not remember what little pain there had been, only the pleasurable fullness and how surprisingly right that had felt. He woke up to the feel of warm skin against his, surrounding him, and it was hard convincing himself that he had to extricate himself from Spencer's (_Sir Spencer's_, Brendon tried to remind himself) arms. But gentlemen who dallied with the governess would not want to be reminded of their indiscretions in the light of day. And Brendon certainly would not want to be seen by the maid whose duty it was to wake Sir Spencer in the morning.

He got to his own bed just as light was just beginning to dawn, but even in its safety and the comfortable cocoon he had made of the sheets, there was no sleep to be had.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Brendon kept to himself. He stayed in bed till late in the afternoon, and when Jon Walker sent a note inquiring after his failure to appear for their planned trip to the pond, he sent one back pleading a headache that was only somewhat invented. Greta attempted to come and visit his sick bed, but Brendon was able to convince her, with some help from the housekeeper, that unconventional as this household was, it would be inappropriate for a young lady to visit a gentleman's bedroom. He ate from a plate in his room, and received an apologetic letter from Miss Greta who blamed herself for dragging him to a ball against his wishes, and thus clearly endangering his delicate health.

Sir Spencer did not attempt to contact him.

The day after, Brendon was visited by Jon Walker who brought him 'the best hangover remedy known to man, from me granma's own recipe'. Brendon thanked him kindly, but was forced to confess that this was not the cause of his ill health. Jon Walker then produced a bottle of brandy from his coat pocket, and proceeded to get Brendon utterly and shamefully drunk despite his protestations of being already sick. They drunk to the beauty of Miss Greta, to the glory that was Greece and the splendour that was Rome (these were Brendon's suggestions), to the sublime poetry of Lord Way, and to the absence of Mr Wentz. Neither mentioned why precisely this last should be a cause of celebration, but both agreed fervently that the removal of Mr Wentz to London, brief though it might be (Lord Ross was expecting his return the next day, said Walker, and grimaced), was most agreeable.

On the third day, Brendon woke up with the worst hangover known to man, was hideously sick on his sheets, and then grateful for Jon Walker's miraculous, miraculous remedy. By the evening, he had even talked himself into making an appearance at dinner. He could not hide from Sir Spencer forever, after all, and was already in danger of looking somewhat silly. Best to maintain a polite façade, for all their sakes.

But when he entered the dining room, he was greeted by strange looks and cold faces. Brendon dared a glance at Sir Spencer, but he was frowning at Mr Wentz, apparently now returned from his travels. Mr Wentz, however, was looking at Brendon.

"Good evening, Mr Boyd. Or is it Mr Urie?"

The world stilled around him. His skin was suddenly too tight over his bones and a humming in his ears made it hard to hear. Yet Brendon was aware, as if through a fog, of several things happening at once; the clash of falling cutlery and Greta's shocked face, Casimir dropping a spoon into his bowl and splashing soup all over himself, Lord Ross's little satisfied hum. This last blossomed into a venomous smirk as Ross watched him stumble on his feet. For a moment Brendon thought he might fall over, his knees strangely week and refusing to support him, but it passed. There was nothing to lean against, but he could stand.

"What do you mean, Wentz?"

Sir Spencer's voice was sharp, but the look he gave Brendon was concerned, _concerned for him_, he abruptly realised, and promptly wanted to be sick.

"Your Mr Boyd is not who he claims to be." Wentz's eyes were gleaming and he gave every sign of being highly pleased with himself, and with what he was about to say. "I had the most interesting conversation with Flowers yesterday - you remember Flowers, that religious nutter who made such a fuss over Way's kohl-rimmed eyes and the immoral poetry. He's still a bastard, but he told me about a young man who had been teaching his sister to play the harp. Turns out the fellow had designs on Miss Georgiana, and when Flowers confronted him, he tried to seduce him. Can you imagine, Flowers? The look on his face?"

"Pete."

"What?" Mr Wentz's grin was sickening, and did not falter at Sir Spencer's glare. After a long moment, Sir Spencer turned to address his cousins.

"Greta, will you be so kind as to ask the cook to have your dinner served at the old nursery this evening? Cash, please find Alexander and inform him of the change in location. He is probably still in the library."

Greta was pale and quiet as she ushered her brother out of the room, and she did not spare a glance at Brendon. Once the door had closed behind them, Mr Wentz continued with relish.

"Anyway, what then happens is that Flowers, being a church-going hypocrite, meets Mr Urie of Yorkshire during a service at St. Mary's. Or was it St. George's? Anyway, one of the fashionable churches that all provincials frequent. Mr Urie is devout gentleman who has come to town on a matter of inheritance. His wife's aunt, a crazy old spinster named Miss Boyd, had died and left her fortune to Mr Urie's youngest son. Except, it turns out that Mr Urie had turned his son out six years ago when he'd caught him dallying with the stable boy."

"The stable boy. How vulgar." Lord Ross's sneer was perfect.

"Well, quite. In any case, this turns our Mr Flowers quite purple with rage, and he was still frothing at the mouth when I met him a few hours later. Started saying something about fire and brimstone and the excesses of coffee houses - thought he got confused with Way, myself - but I stopped listening after a while. You know how it is. Even at his most lucid, Flowers is quite intolerable and at this point he was all but clawing at the furniture - the club's waiters were getting quite distressed - so I abandoned him to their tender mercies and came right here. Thought you might like to know about the viper on your bosom."

Wentz leered as he said this, and the normalcy of that might have been reassuring if not for the look on Sir Spencer's face. Brendon felt a squeeze around his heart as he watched Sir Spencer struggle for composure and saw the coldness creep around his eyes and the severe tilt of his chin.

"Brendon." Sir Spencer faltered then and Brendon waited, not quite breathing, as he tried to control his voice. "Brendon, is this true?"

The faces that stared down at him ranged from curious to impassive to disdainful, but it was clear they all expected him to speak, defend himself, deny the claims.

For a brief moment Brendon thought about lying, just to swipe the smirk off Lord Ross's face and to banish the coldness from Spencer's. And he had not done those things, never touched Georgiana and never responded to Flowers' guilty glances. But he was Brendon Boyd Urie, he had been disowned by his father for loving a boy, and it would be easy enough to prove that. And the rest, well, that wouldn't matter. There would be a scandal, and he would be carted off to the pillory and there would be a stain on the honourable Smith name.

There was nothing he could say.

"I am sorry," Brendon said, and walked out.

 

* * *

 

There was something awful about the whiteness of Spencer's face. He looked as sick as Ryan felt, not that Ryan had any reason to feel sick, but still. Boyd had been a scheming little bastard and they would all be better off without him. Spencer especially. Now he would understand why it was a bad idea to mingle with the help.

"Pete. I am going to ask you once, with the understanding that if your answer is not satisfactory you will be not be welcome in this house once any more, so listen carefully. What the hell was that?"

The cold fury in Spencer's voice made Ryan choke, and if not for the growing understanding and hurt on Pete's face, he would not have been able to speak. But for this, he had to say something.

He did not intend for his voice to sound quite so venomous, though.

"He's been lying to you all this time, that's what. Can't you see what he could, what kind of a scandal he could create? The ruin of us all, Greta's reputation in tatters and Cash turned out of university, the blackmail? People have killed themselves for less, Spencer!"

It sounded impressive, rational even, when it had been inside his own head. But Spencer had never looked at him like that before.

"I can't decide whether you have actually convinced yourself that Brendon is a danger. Or whether you are simply too caught up in your own mess to care about the trouble you bring to others."

The words were spoken with a slow, almost careful precision, which made the contemptuous tone all the more devastating. Ryan swallowed, and tried to think of something to say that would move the moment forward, away from this horrible silence.

"But ask yourself this. Why does it bother you if I involve myself with the governess? What is it about him that makes you spout all that rubbish about keeping to your station? And honestly Ryan, do you think that we don't all know who it is that you're really talking about? That he doesn't know?"

The narrow look that Pete gave Spencer revealed the guilty truth of this. His shame, it would seem, had not been private.

Slowly, and with stumbling steps, Ryan forced himself to walk out of the room, his eyes blinking desperately as he tried to get rid of whatever it was that was making them water before somebody saw him. It would not do to give anyone the wrong impression.

He barely had time to round one corner at a growing pace when Jon Walker was there, appearing seemingly out of nowhere and making no attempt to avoid the collision. They crashed together, then bounced against the wall and it was only Walker's deft footwork that kept them from falling to the ground. Familiar hands gripped his shoulders and pinned him against the wall, and Ryan flinched as Walker's face came perilously close. He didn't move away.

"Are you going to tell me to watch where you're going again?" Walker's voice was low and it sent a strange shiver down Ryan's spine. He shook his head to clear his mind.

"You should remember your place!"

Walker pressed closer, his face white and fierce, and Ryan felt the beat of his heart grow faster. For a moment they stayed still, but then Walker drew back, his eyes suddenly tired and sad. His grip on Ryan's arms did not lessen, though.

"Ryan Ross. What am I going to do with you?"

There was such concern in his voice that Ryan could find nothing to say, no venomous comments to counter the wealth of sadness there. This was not how they conversed, and at another time Ryan would have been annoyed at Walker for changing the rules. But he was still close and his fingers had come to stroke Ryan's cheeks, almost absent-mindedly. The warmth of his hands, of the body pressing tight into him, felt too good for Ryan to think of a counter attack, to remember why he had to do that.

Then Ryan remembered why he was there, and started to shrink away. Walker was friends with Boyd, and with Spencer, this would not…

"No. No, none of that. Come, I'm going to…come with me."

Suddenly Walker was grabbing him by the shoulders and steering him along down the hallway, towards the backdoor. Their legs were still intertwined but when Ryan tried to aright himself Walker just pulled him back.

"What…"

"Not a word, Ross. I am taking you back to my house. We're going to have a little chat."

There were a number of things he could say to that, beginning with do not tell me what to do, but Ryan found that he didn't want to say any of them. Speaking had not been a success for him of late. He pressed his lips shut and allowed himself to be led through the doors and out of the house.

Walker kept giving him little sideway looks but Ryan stared ahead, refusing to answer. The hands on his arms grew tighter.

The house where Walker lived stood a few hundred yards behind the main building, a small cottage with two floors and a green door. Ryan had to pass it whenever he went for his walks in the orchard, and he liked to make comments about eyesores and ruining the landscape if Spencer was around. He had never been inside.

The green door came open with a kick. Walker, it seemed, was disinclined to let go of Ryan. He barely had time to glance at the neat little room, with a table and a few chairs and a small fireplace giving it the air of cosy domesticity, before he was whisked upstairs by Walker's insistent hands. They did not pause until a door opened to reveal what must have been Walker's bedroom; white sheets, a thick blanket, and a sturdy bed on a wooden frame.

Ryan swallowed, then pulled away to stand apart. Walker's hands fell down as he brushed past Ryan to go sit on the bed. For a moment they stared at each other in silence. Then Walker smiled.

"Come here."

Ryan's breath caught in his throat. Walker was looking at him calmly, his hands resting quietly in his lap, yet something about him made Ryan's stomach roil. That thoughtful gaze pinned him to his place, and he could feel himself pressed down to the bed by those shoulders, opened with those fingers. They would be thick inside him, give no quarter. Ryan shuddered and stumbled on his feet.

"Come here, Ryan."

The command in Walker's voice had him moving before he could make a decision about how to respond, and then Ryan did not care because he was being pulled down. Walker's hands were rough on his cheeks and Ryan moaned, rubbing his face against them even as his mouth searched for Walker's. Closing his eyes, Ryan let himself be taken.

There was more skill than he had expected in the fingers that unwrapped his scarf and unbuttoned his shirt. Slow and meticulous, they peeled away his clothes with such careful intent that Ryan had to shudder and press his body onto the bed to keep from unravelling entirely. There was no force, but something about Walker's compact strength kept him in place, and Ryan wanted to surrender, give himself over to his knowing hands. But Walker, it seemed, was not satisfied with that.

"Open your eyes. I want you to see me when I do this."

He wanted to struggle, remain unthinking and anonymous inside his head, but when Walker's hands fell off his body, Ryan's eyes opened without his volition. Walker was kneeling back on the bed, watching him without a smile, his eyes serious. He was still clothed. From his pocket, he picked up a silken scarf and wrapped it around his fist. Ryan recognised it as one he had thought lost weeks ago.

"I am going to take care of you."

His voice was low and sure, and Ryan's breath caught in his throat. At that, Walker smiled again, a secretive little smirk that would have made Ryan furious at any other time, but now it made him tremble. That smile had designs.

Reaching out, Walker tugged on one of Ryan's wrists and pressed it against the bedpost. He kept his eyes on Ryan's as he tied the scarf, his fingers making quick work of it. Then, Walker leaned back and picked up the scarf he had removed earlier. His grin had widened.

"Just to make sure you keep your place."

Ryan wanted to cringe, but there was no space to curl up his body and Walker's hands, now stroking his belly, kept him pressed to the bed. The second scarf attached his other hand to the bed, not an uncomfortable reach but enough that he had to keep his hands away from his body. There would be no way to hide himself.

Walker slid his hands down Ryan's arms, smoothing down the muscles that threatened to jump. They came to rest on Ryan's chest, just over his heart. Lowering himself down, his clothes still on and scratching against Ryan' skin, Walker pressed his mouth on the spot. His eyelashes fluttered against Ryan's ribs.

Something opened inside him and suddenly Ryan could not breathe, could only tug at the restraints in vain as Walker's hands and mouth began to map him over, explore every bit of skin and muscle and bone that tied his quickly unravelling body together. The quiet moans that escaped his throat became louder and more abandoned as Walker made his way down, stripping away everything else.

There were moments when he remembered, saw Spencer's cold face, but then Walker would grip his chin and suck all thought out of his mouth.

"Don't think about them, think about me. Think about what I'm doing."

Then there was nothing else left as Walker spread Ryan's thighs, perched them on his shoulders and began to nuzzle Ryan's thighs. His fingers inside Ryan were as broad and unyielding as Ryan had hoped, and they kept him open even when there were no noises left in his throat. When Walker finally pressed inside him, his mouth on Ryan's cheek and his hands on Ryan's hips, holding him in place, Ryan could only bite down on his arm and let himself feel.

 

* * *

 

Ryan woke to a distant crashing sound. He remembered where he was before he opened his eyes, the memory of Walker's warm body still close. Ryan squeezed his eyes shut tighter before opening them. He did not want to rise yet. But the smell of fresh bread was wafting through the door.

Walker was pouring tea into two cups when Ryan walked down the stairs. He paused as Walker looked up, then after a moment, continued his careful steps. This would be an unfortunate time for his clumsiness to assert itself.

Walker was still watching when Ryan arrived at the bottom. Wordlessly, he gestured towards the table with its steaming cups of tea and then pulled back one of the chairs in silent offering.

Ryan did not move, or speak. Jon Walker smiled and scratched his beard.

"Might as well get something warm in you before you head back to the house. It's a wet morning."

This made sense. Also, he did not wish to be running away like a ruined maiden. Or a disgraced governess. Ryan halted the step he was about to take.

"Boyd. You should know he…I said some things, yesterday…"

It was ridiculous, really, that he should seek to justify himself to Walker, of all people, but suddenly it was crucially important that Ryan not partake of the man's tea without making a full confession. But Walker did not look angry, merely frustrated - not unlike he had looked last night.

"I spoke to Brendon before he left. He is…I know what you said. What you've been saying to him all these months."

"And still, you…"

This did not make any sense. Not that Walker, being a peasant, could be expected to make sense. He was smiling now, that lazy, amused grin that used to drive Ryan mad. Inconsiderate bastard.

"I still took you to bed, Ryan Ross. And I will take you to bed again, and do all manner of things to you, and make you love it."

Exhausted suddenly, Ryan sat down on the offered chair. "Why would you do that?"

Walker sat down next to him, and bumped his leg against Ryan's under the table.

"I like to keep you in your place."

 

* * *

 

The piano in Patrick's little house was old, but years of careful tending had kept it in good shape. This is where Brendon had first learned to play, when his parents had invited the young Mr Stump to include him in the piano lessons he was giving to the Misses Cole. He remembered Miss Cheryl's laughter at his boots (they were too big, recently handed down from his brother), and Miss Nicola's awkward smiles whenever he spoke. But Patrick had asked him to play, and Brendon had forgotten all about the girls and their loud whispers.

In the two weeks since his arrival, Brendon had spent much of his time by the piano. It was a comforting place and it gave him a reason to be there. He did not always play, but sitting there made him feel calm. His fingers did not jitter as much.

The thought of turning up at Patrick's door shivering and desolate again had made him sick, but Patrick had merely sighed and pulled him in. Brendon knew he brought trouble with him, but there had been nowhere else to go, and he needed Patrick's awkward hugs and pats on the arm. No display of affection could cheer his heart more than a squeeze on his shoulder from a stout, irritable little man, who made his long suffering in the face of Brendon's excessive clinginess clear.

Brendon told him what had happened after his last letter, about the night in the cottage with Sir Spencer and about Mr Wentz and how his arrival had made Lord Ross behave even more strangely. Patrick agreed that this was most strange, then got up and made them some tea. Brendon noticed that his face was a little red when he came back.

Two weeks after his arrival, his trunks were delivered. Brendon had only vague memories of that night, but he remembered Jon Walker's pinched face and a calming voice that told him he would be fine, and Jon putting him on a horse and sending him to the nearest town with Mike the stable-hand and Jon's purse. Jon's handwriting was small and careful, and the note that came with the trunks said only that all was quiet at Cadwallan and that Brendon should be safe, they were not looking for him.

It should have been reassuring.

 

* * *

 

Patrick came in with a hopeful expression. "I may have found something for you."

Brendon's fingers paused on the piano keys. "Oh yes?"

"William has cousins who are moving to India. They need a tutor for their son."

Brendon turned on his seat. This might be worth getting up.

"How old is the son?"

"Twelve. He has been at Rugby but his parents don't want to leave him behind, only child and cherished heir and all that. They are looking for someone who will be gentle with their little boy."

"I see. Spoiled?"

"Probably. But the mother is a sensible woman, according to William. He won't be too difficult."

"Hmm." Brendon turned to face the piano again, and placed his hands on the keys. He heard Patrick shuffle his feet, and then a frustrated sigh. He could imagine the frown on Patrick's face.

"Brendon?"

"Mmm?"

"This is a good chance."

"I know."

"Brendon."

"What? Are you that eager to be rid of me? Just say the word and I will…"

"You will do what, Brendon?" Patrick sighed again. "And don't be silly, of course you're welcome here. But you know it might not be safe. You would do better to leave the country."

Brendon folded his hands in his lap. His voice was quiet. "I know."

Patrick shuffled closer and squeezed his shoulder. How miserable must he look to merit that, Brendon thought and almost smiled at the thought.

"Think about it. They are coming to visit the vicarage this weekend, so you could meet them at least."

"I will. Thank you, Patrick."

Patrick gave him another awkward pat, then walked towards the kitchen. No doubt there would be tea soon, to soothe them both.

Brendon sighed and began to play again.

 

* * *

 

An hour later, after Patrick had brought him a cup of tea and made tutting noises about Brendon's waning appetite, the quiet of the afternoon was disrupted by the sound of horses and a carriage. It was not often that they received visitors, but Brendon assumed that it was Miss Asher coming to visit, and continued to play. Only upon hearing Patrick's startled yelp, which was followed by the sound of breaking flowerpots and the unmistakable laughter of Mr Pete Wentz, did Brendon rise to his feet and walk to the door.

But standing outside their door was Sir Spencer Smith, his fist curved elegantly and raised to knock. His eyes narrowed when he saw Brendon, and his mouth turned into a straight line.

"Mr Boyd."

Brendon swallowed. He could not deny there had been nightmares like this, but still, he was unprepared. "Sir Spencer."

"I believe we have some things to discuss."

A silence followed, broken only by the sound of another flowerpot breaking and Patrick's indignant squeak. Brendon opened his mouth and closed it again. There were freckles on Spencer's nose.

"Inside, Mr Boyd? I believe it would be best to do this without an audience."

"Um. Yes. Let me just see if Patrick…"

"Your friends is in good hands, do not concern yourself. Now, are you going to let me in?"

The hands of Mr Pete Wentz should not, in any circumstances, be called 'good', Brendon felt, but decided not to press the point. He stepped back and beckoned Sir Spencer in.

The room was suddenly smaller, and Brendon went to stand by the piano. Best to place as much space between them as possible. He could see the freckles from over here.

Sir Spencer stood in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Then suddenly, the cold look on his face softened into uncertainty and his voice, when he spoke, was quiet.

"You ran away before I could talk to you."

This was no what Brendon had expected. He made a little coughing noise, and tried to remain calm.

"I did not think there was anything to say, Sir Spencer."

A frustrated sigh escaped as Sir Spencer rubbed his hand across his face. "I wish you would not call me that."

"You are, were, my employer…"

"I am also the man who...who has shared your bed. You can allow for some intimacy between us!"

Spencer's voice was suddenly loud and furious, and Brendon cringed. Then he remembered that he too had the right to be angry.

"Be quiet! Have you come here to ruin me?"

"I have come to ask you to come back!"

The pause which followed was loaded and lengthy. Brendon repeated the words to himself, but they still did not make any sense.

"But…but you cannot. The rumours, it would ruin you, and Greta and Casimir and Alex and…"

Spencer took a step closer, his voice turned low and steady. "There is no rumour. Pete will keep his mouth shut and so will Ryan, and Mr Flowers is being strongly encouraged to refrain from further slander as we speak."

"How can you…"

"Saporta owes me a favour and he knows something about Flowers that can convince him to remain quiet. I thought it best not to ask."

"What about," Brendon coughed and forced the words out "What about my father?"

Spencer stilled. He frowned and his eyes grew regretful.

"I'm sorry to say I cannot do anything about him, but I should hope that his own self-interest would restrain his tongue. I am trying to find ways to contest his claims on Miss Boyd's will without revealing your whereabouts �" I cannot promise you it will be successful but there is a possibility that you might get to inherit."

"But then…"

A hesitant smile began to form on Spencer's lips. It turned his cheeks round, and Brendon felt a strange lightness in his head.

"Then you would not need to work. But I should like you to come with me all the same. I should like you to come and live with me."

Brendon shook his head, slowly, and twisted his fingers in his shirt. This still did not make any sense, or he did not want to believe it. Things like this were not among the realm of possibility.

"I am accustomed to taking care of myself. It would not be appropriate for me to continue in your employment while we…while we had an unprofessional relationship. You must understand, it would be too much of a risk. You could ruin me, if you chose."

"And you could take me down with you, if you chose, or blackmail me, or cause a scandal that would destroy the reputation of everyone in my family. That is a risk I am prepared to take because I don't believe that you would. And I understand that it is not the same, that you have more to lose, but. But this is worth taking the chance. If you find that you are happier elsewhere, then you are free to go. I could write you a reference right now, and leave it with the vicar here if that would make you more safe."

Spencer's voice was solemn and steady, but there was a note of uncertainty, of yearning almost that sounded strange to Brendon's ears. Sir Spencer Smith had never been anything but confident in himself. It was incongruous to think that Brendon might have caused a crack in that formidable self-sufficiency.

Spencer took another step closer, and his eyes turned warm. "Please. It would be…we would be good together. I could make you happy, I think."

Spencer's mouth was paused in an unhappy line and his hands kept forming into fists, as if he had to keep himself from touching Brendon. Suddenly Brendon had to laugh because what was this, a beautiful man, a good man asking for the chance to make him happy? How could he turn that down?

Stepping closer, Brendon took hold of Spencer's hand. It was larger than his, slightly damp from the ride, and clasping his fervently. Brendon decided that he was tired of playing the governess.

He raised the hand to his lips and pressed a close-mouthed kiss on Spencer's wrist. "Yes," he said, and did not try to stop the smile that threatened to split his face.

But before he could say or do anything more (and there were many things Brendon intended to do), the door banged open and an irate Patrick stormed in, Mr Wentz following at what was clearly an aggravating proximity. Neither paid any attention to the room's previous occupants.

"Now we are in private, Mr Wentz, what do you wish to say to me? Let me remind you that this is house belongs to a man of the cloth and that you should mind your words accordingly."

"Pshh. The vicar lives next door as you well know. Besides, there is nothing inappropriate in what I am about to say."

Brendon's disbelief at this statement was mirrored on Patrick's face.

"Very well. Why are you here? How did you find me?"

Something about Mr Wentz's stance suggested he was vibrating with barely contained glee. Patrick seemed to note this also, as he took a step back. Mr Wentz followed. And then bounced a little.

"Your little friend mentioned his beloved mentor to my cousin. I have searched the ends of the earth for you, my dear Patrick, but for some reason rural Lancashire evaded my grasp."

Patrick's ears began to turn red, but whether that was from rage, embarrassment, or something else was hard to tell. One of the many things Brendon would have to inquire about later. Clearly Patrick had been hiding some crucial things.

"That still does not answer my question. Why are you here? What can you possibly want with me after all these years?"

"My feelings have not changed, Patrick. I still want the same things from you."

The serious tone did not fit with Wentz's crazed eyes, but it gave them a new meaning. Patrick stared at him silently for a moment and when he spoke, his voice was quiet.

"And my answer is the same. The risk is too great and I am not prepared to chance it."

Wentz stepped close, all but pinning Patrick against the door. Brendon found himself swallowing in response.

"Is that what you would tell your little friend? Would you instruct him to abandon his love and live in fear? I have tried the safe route, Patrick, I have tried everything else but it will not do. There is no one else for me."

"Your eccentric tastes are known far and wide, Mr Wentz. I would not add myself to the list to satiate your waning appetites."

Wentz grinned, and Brendon suddenly felt very sorry for Patrick. That was not the grin of a man who would give up. Or one who was entirely sane.

"We shall see, Mr Stump. As you'll remember, I can be hard to resist. And I don't intend to let you go now that I have found you."

A blush began to creep up Patrick's neck. This did not escape Wentz's notice, as his grin turned wider. ""Oh Patrick. It_ has _been too long."

Brendon felt a slight tug on his arm. Spencer jerked his head towards the door.

"I believe this might be a good moment for us to retire. Such negotiations are best conducted in private, I feel. Is there somewhere we can…?"

"Resume our negotiations?'

Spencer's lips quirked with humour and somewhat embarrassed happiness. "Yes. As it were."

Brendon raised an eyebrow, and started pulling Spencer up the stairs.

"As it were? I'll have you know, Sir Spencer, that I'm not that kind of a governess."

One arch look, and Brendon found himself crowded against his bedroom door, Spencer's breath on his cheek.

"We'll see, Mr Boyd. You might surprise yourself."

Brendon spared a thought to Lord Ross, smirked, and allowed himself to be carried through the door and to his irrevocable ruin.

He expected it would be glorious.

 

_  
And then they lived happily ever after in eternal buggery. Brendon moved back to Cadwallan, where he continued to teach until Alexander left for Cambridge, after which he was occupied himself with organising the musical library that had by this point grown considerable. Pete continued to woo (or harass, depending on who you asked) Patrick, both in person and through an extensive campaign of letters, gifts, and inappropriate offers. In the end, Patrick consented to relocate to London with him, but not before Pete had threatened to buy a house in the village and serenade Patrick every night. _

Lord Ross has stayed as a guest at Cadwallan, while Jon Walker continues to manage the estate. The household turns a blind eye to any disquieting noises originating from Lord Ross's room or Jon Walker's house, or, occasionally, his office. Sir Spencer has also been forced to utter several ultimatums about desecrating the library.

Miss Greta teased Lord Saporta for two London seasons before accepting his offer of marriage.


End file.
